A Borrowed Voice
by Quantumphysica
Summary: A young man survives a car crash that should have killed him… but when he wakes from his coma, he no longer understands English. He speaks gibberish... or so the doctors think; they don't know Old Quenya after all. When he meets Maka Smith, speech therapist and oath-bound kinslayer, an unlikely mission from the Valar forces them to work together… whether they like it or not.
1. A Quenya Problem

_Communication… It's something we take for granted. I certainly never gave it much thought; 17-year-olds generally have better things to do than pondering over the wonders of language. But… well, you think differently about things when they're suddenly missing. It's like having lost a limb; you aren't aware of how much you use it until it's gone and you're left to figure out how to cope without it._

…

Thomas opened his eyes with a start. The blinding front lights and deafening claxon still echoed through his head, and it took a moment before he realized he wasn't sitting in his father's car anymore, ready to be crushed by a truck driving in the wrong lane. He was lying in a hospital bed, attached to machines with electrodes and IV tubes. The only sound he heard was his own breathing, and the quiet beeping of the heart monitor. It didn't leave much question as to what had happened; they had obviously not been able to evade collision with the ghost driver. How long had he been out? Had he been in a coma? Thomas tried to recall as much details about himself and his life as possible.

_My name is Thomas Ashworth. I am an only child. My parents are divorced. My father's name is Frank. My mother's name was Linda. She died of cancer 11 years ago. I'm 17 years old, 18 in October. I'm going to college next year. My zodiac sign is Libra. Timothy Hardwick owes me 5 pounds. I like Mac n' cheese. Dad was going to take me out to the movies next week. I had an assignment for English literature due Monday._

After a while, Thomas was convinced that he had no memory loss. He could move his limbs, and all of those were present, he could see, hear, and speak, and his mind was –in his opinion- rather clear for someone who had just woken up from a potential coma. He seemed to be surprisingly all right… so why did he feel as if something was completely wrong?

When the doctors came in and excitedly started asking questions, he knew. They spoke to him, but he didn't understand a word of what they were saying. The language sounded familiar, but all the same he didn't comprehend it. Slowly, his panic started to rise. Did they even understand him?

"Ma hanyatyen?"

From the way their speech fell silent, he could tell they didn't. Maybe he could write? After making a scribbling motion with his hand, he was handed the notebook and pen of one of the doctors. He confidently started writing, only to stop when he noticed the printed characters atop the notebook. He couldn't read them, and their odd, angular shapes didn't look a thing like the perfectly readable letters he had just penned down. Fear suddenly grabbed him by the throat. Could it be… could it be that he was completely incomprehensible?

…

"Heca! Eca cenienyallo!"

A bedpan clattered against the wall as a nurse hurried away. She looked scared, Thomas noted with grim satisfaction. He was mad at her. He was mad at everyone. The mere fact that they were all part of a society of people who understood each other made him want to bash their heads in. Mere months ago he had never even imagined being this angry, but now? He had to make-do with picture books for communication, point towards images like a fucking two-year-old to make himself understood. People treated him like a retard. It had taken him an entire month to get someone to explain him where his father was… as if it was so difficult to draw a coffin on a piece of paper. Thomas scowled to himself. They had done tests at the hospital until every square inch of his body had been scanned and mapped, and concluding that he had irreparable brain damage, they had sent him to a so-called "revalidation centre". It was a crossover of a retirement home and an insane asylum, and to him, a dead end on the road to recovery. He was housed among drooling vegetables, people who had lost multiple limbs, who couldn't eat by themselves, who didn't even recognize their own reflection anymore… and no matter how much he wanted to think that he wasn't so far gone, he couldn't be sure. In his head his speech made sense, and he could read the things he wrote, but he seemed to be the only one seeing some logic in it. For all he knew he was just uttering random syllables and scribbling aimlessly; they certainly treated him as if that was the case. They called it Aphasia; the word had been used often enough for him to pick it up as a term for his condition. Thomas had picked up several words over time; food, bathroom, bed, therapy, no, yes, and several others… but the doctors and therapists always applauded him as if he had made a major achievement every time he used one of those, so he had simply stopped it. He wasn't in kindergarten; he didn't need a prize for being able to express himself, thank you very much.

Sometimes he felt a little guilty for the way he acted towards everybody. It was perhaps no wonder that they treated him like a toddler, as he threw temper tantrums like one… But he was so pissed, and he couldn't explain it to anybody, and every time he was reminded of how he could not explain what he felt, the anger became worse. It was like being locked up in a tiny prison cell without windows; all he could do was yell and scream and bang at the walls, hoping that someone might hear his distress. The rage kept him fighting. Somehow he knew that if he stopped being angry, he would simply stop living. And he didn't want to die… although he didn't dare to ask himself what he was living for. Right now, all he had was stubbornness.

His future didn't look too bright. In the best case he would stay here until he was old and decrepit, still calling the doctors "stinking pigs" in his own unintelligible pig Latin. And that was the best-case scenario, in which he didn't provide himself with a premature death by cutting his wrists or jumping out of a window. Thomas' frown deepened. Now he thought about it, he wasn't so sure anymore that the scenario in which he lived the longest was also the best…

….

The nurse came in again. This time, she had brought a plastic folder with pictures. This usually meant that something would change about his day-to-day schedule, so Thomas allowed her to come in without throwing stuff at her head and yelling to fuck off. The occasional bout of tolerance was also good for his chamber plants; the more temper tantrums he threw, the more pills he had to pretend to swallow and then bury in the plant pots, and he feared that it was starting to show.

The nurse spoke slowly, and pointed towards different brightly coloured pictures in the folder. Therapy, Music, Afternoon… All right, he was apparently having some kind of musical therapy in the afternoon. He nodded towards the nurse to show that he had understood, but internally he was shaking his head. Music therapy? They must be getting truly desperate. They had set a hoard of speech- and other therapists on him when he had first arrived, but one by one those had given up, sometimes because the therapy wasn't suited to his problem, but mostly because he refused to cooperate. His comprehension had not been reduced to the level of a first grader, but apparently that was too difficult to grasp for the people in the centre. They heard him babble nonsense, so they assumed that his knowledge of the world had been reduced to nonsense as well. And without the ability to explain what he could and could not understand, he had no other defence against asininity than his silence. Thomas put it quite simply for himself: he was not retarded and he wasn't in preschool, so he would be treated like an adult or not at all. And everyone who disagreed could eat shit.

He angrily started drawing in his sketchbook. At least his drawings were universally understandable. He had always liked to draw, but ever since it was his sole method of communication besides those infantile picture books, he had gotten significantly better at it. However, because he had nothing much to communicate except for anger, he specialized in drawing things to unsettle the medical personnel. He was becoming particularly skilled at drawing corpses... This time he decided to go all out and draw a massacre, so he would have something to frighten the new therapist with. Thomas already had an image in his head of what a "music therapist" might look like, and he didn't think they would be the type to appreciate a good dose of gore… He chuckled in unholy glee when he imagined the face the therapist would probably pull when she entered the room to such a sight…

* * *

In the 7th age he had run into an elf he had thought long gone. Daeron, the bard of Doriath. There was irony in the fact that of all elves, he had to come across the only other anguished, wandering minstrel in Middle Earth… but in the end that hadn't mattered much. They had both been desperate for company, and in the face of loneliness they had set aside their differences and opted to live together. He had told himself at the time that it was only a matter of practicality; when you were the only remaining specimens of your kind, it made sense to stick together after all. Yet over time he had come to care for the Sinda, which had made their eventual parting all the more painful. Maglor had thought his heart had turned to stone when he had cast away the Silmaril, but the death of Daeron had proven him that he was still capable of grief.

When they had first met Daeron had already been weakened, and as more years had passed the Sinda had only diminished more. A cold that no fire could warm had spread through his body, and a veil of weariness had fallen over his once so sharp mind. In the end, he had slept almost all the time, his dreams only calm when Maglor had held him. The Noldo could only guess why the same hadn't happened to him, as he had experienced enough pain to break any fëa. Perhaps it was the light of the Trees that had nurtured his being, or the stubborn blood of his father, or even his wretched Oath… but either way, he had remained bound to the world while his friend had diminished and passed into the Halls. Before, Maglor would have considered it part of his punishment, being forced to endure while all others passed on… but having to care for Daeron while he faded had changed his perspective. He had truly helped the tormented Sinda; their friendship had given Daeron peace and eased his passing. Even while mourning, Maglor had felt that he had done a good thing.

And so, in the wake of the minstrel's death, he had made his decision. Instead of adding to his own suffering and continuing to wallow in self-pity, he would try to relieve the suffering of others. His deeds had brought enough pain into the world; trying to take some of that away would be the least he could do.

Throughout the ages Maglor had never lacked for work, for of all things the world had never had a shortage of sorrow. He had travelled around and tried to make himself useful, wherever and however the situation demanded; he had worked on battlefields, in hospitals, in the ravage of natural disasters, in slums, in homes for the elderly… more places than even he remembered clearly.

It might have been coincidence that he found himself in the Charlesbury Revalidation Clinic in the Cotswolds that faithful Monday afternoon, as he could just as well have been in Ethiopia or Syria at the time… but in retrospect, he didn't think so. Valar-forsaken as this world might be, there were still some people in it that Arda's divine beings just couldn't leave alone, unfortunately.

…..

"We are grateful you could take up another patient. I understand your schedule is very busy."

"You could say that. Can you tell me a bit more of this patient? I understand that he has serious aphasia, but…"

Maglor left the sentence unfinished, and Dr Anita Beardsley smiled kindly at him.

"Ah, you haven't been given his file yet? I'll try to fill you in then. He's a piece of work, this boy!" She shook her head. "Severe brain damage after a car accident, and if the reports are to be believed, he shouldn't even be alive; the neurologists had estimated that he would never wake from his coma. It's a small miracle how self-reliant he is given the state of his brain; he needs no help with eating, washing, or any other basic chores, and non-verbal intelligence tests show that his IQ is normal and even slightly above average. Gross and fine motor skills are impeccable, pattern recognition and practical understanding of situations as well… as long as he doesn't open his mouth, you could mistake him for a healthy adolescent!"

Maglor nodded in understanding.

"But the aphasia…?"

"Yes, the aphasia. It's a sad case really, because he has recovered so well in virtually all other areas. He has a severe form of Wernicke's Aphasia; his speech is fluent but meaningless, he no longer knows how to write, and he doesn't understand language, neither spoken nor written. His previous therapists have noted that there seems to be some method in his babbling, but as he has shown himself entirely unwilling to work with them this hasn't been explored further. I think it's the most complete loss of communication skills in a further functional person that I've ever seen in my career."

"He is unwilling to cooperate in therapy?"

"Yes. He is extremely prone to temper tantrums and violent outbursts, and seems to find pleasure in exasperating his therapists and caregivers. We suspect that the brain damage also caused changes in his character, as he had no history of behavioural problems."

"And is any form of communication possible with him?"

"We work with picture-books mostly. He is very visually inclined, also loves to draw." The blonde doctor frowned. "I must admit that he is very talented, but his work is not exactly everybody's piece of cake. He has an unfortunate fascination for all things dead and decaying. I don't know if that's old or more recent, you never know with those artsy types."

"Oh. I see."

Dr Beardsley pulled a sour face.

"You sure will see! He plasters his room with his drawings… there is no escaping them! It's very unsettling, if I may say so. They are disturbingly realistic."

"I'm not easily unsettled."

The doctor didn't seem convinced, and Maglor couldn't exactly blame her. In his therapist's guise he didn't exactly look as if he had seen more wars than her history books made mention of… He decided to change the subject.

"And his family?"

"None. His mother had died already, and his father died in the car accident. There were no other living relatives. Fortunately, his father left him a very generous heritage, thanks to which he will be able to spend the rest of his days in this clinic. We are a very renowned institution for people with non-congenital brain dysfunctions; he receives excellent care here. Many people meet a less pleasant fate when they become incapacitated."

"I can imagine that."

By then, they had reached the boy's room.

"I'll leave you to it then. Meet me for a coffee in the staff room at the end of the hall when you're done! I'll make sure to have a copy of the file ready for you."

Anita Beardsley waved cheerfully at him and then hurried away. Maglor waited before she had entered the staff room to knock on the door. He received no answer, but came in anyway. The first thing he perceived when entering was the anger. The entire room was permeated by a sense of powerless, uncontrolled rage. Maglor ignored the morbid –but indeed skilfully drawn- pictures of mangled bodies that littered the room, and focussed on its occupant. Thomas Ashworth was a slender young man with messy dark brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and an angry glare. He sat on the bed with a sketchbook in his lap, and stared at Maglor with unabashed loathing. He had an intense gaze for a mortal; Maglor could easily imagine how that glare would unnerve less experienced people... For a while, they were both silent, eyeing each other as to determine what they could expect. And then, the boy opened his mouth.

"Istan quetë ya merin, az lá hanyuvatyen..."

And Maglor was, for the first time in many ages, completely dumbstruck.

* * *

The music therapist was not what he had expected. Thomas had pictured some type of kindergarten-teacher-type, possibly blonde and in a flowery dress, and the individual in his room definitely didn't fit that picture. He was tall and handsome, with black hair reaching his shoulders and a face that wouldn't have looked bad in a fashion magazine. Most remarkable were his piercing eyes… Thomas wished the man wouldn't look at him like that, it sent shivers down his spine.

_"I can say what I wish, and you won't understand me."_

He had planned to say something inappropriate and foul, but as the afternoon drew near, he had lost the urge. His glee at the thought of another shocked and disgusted caretaker had been short-lived, and all he had been left with was the bitter realization that once again, he would have to face his inability to be understood. And so, instead of throwing things at the man's head and cursing at him, he simply stated that fact.

The reaction was… not what he had expected. The man stared at him as if he had just sprouted a second head, eyes wide in astonishment. Now people always gave him odd looks when he said something, but this must be the first time his garbled speech had truly perplexed someone like that… Thomas opened his mouth to make a comment on it, when something even more unexpected happened.

"How… how is this possible?"

For a moment, he thought it had been his imagination. Had he really understood what the man said? He had already discarded the possibility, when the visitor repeated his question, with more conviction this time.

"How is this possible? Where have you learned that tongue?" A frown marred the man's face. "Who are you truly?"

Thomas didn't know what to think. Was he dreaming? He had to be, this was just too weird to be real…

"I… I could ask you the same thing. Is this an actual language? I mean, no one understands it. They all think I'm speaking gibberish. Hell, I thought I spoke gibberish!"

"It's Quenya. More specifically, Old Quenya. It is one of the world's oldest tongues."

"That makes no sense. People don't learn a whole new language from scratch after being in a car accident. I'm hallucinating, no?"

That had to be it. He had finally cracked, and now he was imagining that people could understand him. It wasn't even so far-fetched; people became psychotic for less these days.

"You are not hallucinating."

"Right, that's like the voices in your head telling you you're not crazy."

The man was starting to look a little exasperated.

"Will you at least give me the chance to convince you?"

"Fine. Go ahead. Surprise me."

….

"All right. I guess I'll have to believe you. I could never make all that up."

Thomas' head was spinning with names, events and family ties. In an hour he had received the summary of a history full of bloody battles, unbreakable oaths, magic jewels and treacherous family members, and even he didn't believe that he was capable of inventing all that in a bout of psychosis. Also, the pointed ears of his therapist were rather undeniable.

"Good."

"So, what is the point of this?" Thomas gestured at himself. "Do your divine overlords have nothing better to do than playing with the language settings of random human beings?"

"I can't claim to know the minds of the Valar… but I believe you may have been given a mission."

"A mission?"

"It has happened before that a mortal was given a task from the Valar… Although I can't for the life of me imagine what they want with you. From what I've seen, they have all but abandoned this planet."

Thomas shook his head and cynically remarked,

"Who knows? Maybe they wanted a good laugh. I know I would have a good laugh if I could curse someone with a language no one understands."

The mysterious therapist, who had introduced himself as Maglor, raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

He shrugged.

"No. But I would be satisfied to know that I'm not the only one whose life is fucked." He scowled at Maglor's unconvinced look. "Hell, you said yourself you don't know what these Valar people think, and you've known them personally! How am I supposed to make better sense of it?"

"True. Maybe we should wait it out. If you have truly been given a mission, it will be made clear to you later on."

"Right. Do I have to watch out for burning bushes?"

"Wrong religion."

A wry smile curled Thomas' lips.

"Whatever."

"In the meantime, I can try to re-teach you some of your old mother tongue. That is, if you are willing to cooperate. I have heard that your track record of failed therapies is impressive."

"As long as you have no picture books for toddlers with you, I'll be more than willing to cooperate."

Maglor smiled.

"In that case, we're good."

* * *

The situation was surreal, and that was the least that could be said about it. Maglor had long pondered over what he would do if the Valar were to send him a message… but he hadn't expected it to come in the shape of a young, enraged mortal who spoke fluent Quenya. He didn't quite know what to think of it. Thomas was obviously a young mortal and not a reincarnated elf or a Maia in disguise… but some of his mannerisms, the way he lisped his s, moved his hands when speaking, or slightly cocked his head to the side when listening, sent jolts of recognition down Maglor's spine. In those moments, he didn't see Thomas but his own father, if only for a fraction of a second. He wondered if the Valar had done that on purpose… Knowing them, they probably had.

After a while he left Thomas with the promise to return the next day, and went to meet Anita Beardsley in the staff room.

"Ah, there you are! We almost feared you had run off! How did it go?"

"Surprisingly well."

"Well as in, he threw nothing at your head?"

"No, well as in the therapy went very well. I believe that with an intensive schedule, we could make great progress."

The doctor's eyes widened.

"You're serious? He actually cooperated?" When Maglor nodded, she shook her head in disbelief. "You, sir, are a miracle worker. We had all but given up on that boy. The last therapist said he was a devil's spawn and refused to ever see him again."

"Well, I think there is still hope for him."

"I hope you are right… but I think if you could convince him to stop throwing things at the nurses, that would be great progress already. We are used to a lot here, but I have to admit it gets a little tiring sometimes."

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

He had almost forgotten what it was like to have a conversation, to understand and be understood. Never mind how ridiculous and borderline insane the conversation had been, simply the fact that someone had understood him was amazing. Thomas could still hardly believe it… But then, the whole situation was admittedly rather incredible. Discovering that he spoke a millennia old language and that his therapist was an immortal elf had been bizarre enough, but that whole mission-from-the-gods thing was even more out there. It was one thing to think that if there was a god, he must really hate you… but it was another to actually get that confirmed. Maglor had said that a mission from these Powers was a great honour, but Thomas was honestly sceptic. He had read enough myths to know that missions from gods usually had more to do with providing them amusement than with great honour…

He shook his head. That morning, he hadn't believed in any deity, and now he was suddenly forced to believe in not one but at least 14 of them, who had apparently messed up his life on purpose.

_Because Gods have nothing better to do. Seriously. They could be solving the world hunger problem, or global warming, or war in the Middle East... but no. They mess with the life of one random guy. And what for? They're probably just bored out of their minds._

Thomas wondered what was worse; being brain-damaged and babbling nonsense, or being the chosen victim of a crowd of bored divine beings… If the Greek gods were anything to go by, things weren't looking too well for him.

…

The meeting with Maglor had been a key event, it turned out. That night, Thomas dreamed.

He was standing in a large hall of dark marble. There were no windows, and despite the largeness of the place, he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. The air was thick and heavy, like a fog.

"Hello? Anybody here?"

His voice echoed through the marble, but he received no answer. He knew it was a dream, which was odd, because he had never had a lucid dream before, and certainly not of so ominous and unsettling a place. Thomas aimlessly walked around a little. The hall was followed by more, similar halls, and all of them were equally plain and eerie.

_Maybe this is like that station in The Matrix, and I'm just walking back into the same room over and over again…_

"Thomas."

The voice had sounded right behind him. With a start he turned, and found himself faced with a tall man -God? Creature? Being?- with a stern, ageless face. Long black tresses and billowing black robes seemed to waft around the appeared figure like smoke, and Thomas found himself regarded with the blackest eyes he had ever seen. It felt as if they stared right into his soul; Maglor's eyes had given him the creeps, but this really took the cake. If this weren't a dream, he would have taken a run for it…

"There is not much time to explain."

Even in his awe at the majestic –and really kind of scary- being, Thomas felt annoyance at that. He would have thought that gods had all the time in the world to explain things… but then, he supposed the amusement from giving tasks to mortals partially came from watching them try to figure out what to do. Undeterred by Thomas' chagrined expression, the being continued,

"The dead and the living are not on the same plane of existence, and they do not remain in the same physical place either. However, not all those who have died depart from the world as they should. Unseen, they remain among the living."

"Like… ghosts?"

The being solemnly nodded.

"Yes, in a way. Children can see them to a certain age, but they are only very rarely aware of this ability. Some adults are sensitive as well… but they cannot truly see them. Their perception is like the sight of one under water, deformed and unclear."

That was all very interesting –okay, mostly just plain weird- but why did he need to know this? How did this relate to his Quenya problem?

"Err… okay… but what does that have to do with me? I mean, not to be rude, but… it's all kind of confusing."

Thomas wasn't sure, but he thought the being's face gained a hint of sadness.

"You exist on the line between the living and the dead, Thomas Ashworth, and as such you can see and interact with both."

Wow. Now that was unexpected. Thomas wondered how many other surprises like that awaited him.

"And what is the point of that?"

"The spirits of the dead must pass to their designated places. It is the way of things. The un-housed ones should not be among the living. Their presence causes disturbances."

Thomas was starting to get a clue.

"And you want me to convince them to go to the afterlife, or whatever, because I can talk to them?"

"You have understood."

"Well, in that case I don't understand why I have this whole mythical language thing going on. Or do all ghosts speak this Quenya or something?"

This was a dream, so he could be as rude to divine beings as he wanted. And really, he was entitled to a bit of explanation.

"Usually, un-housed spirits understand any language."

"Then why…?"

"The dead understand all tongues, because after their passing they are in connection with a different plane of being, where language and communication are no longer connected as such. The longer they remain among the living however, the more this connection fades."

"And…?"

The dark being was undisturbed by Thomas' impatience.

"Together with the connection, they lose their ability to understand all languages, and also to find their way to what you call the afterlife. There are some who have been lost for so long that they would not recognize any language but the oldest. Those spirits especially need to return as soon as possible."

"And how am I supposed to find them?"

The creature didn't answer his question, and instead made a dismissive gesture.

"We are out of time. Things will be clear when you wake."

The eerie marble halls started to fade and dissolved into thick black vapour, and Thomas suddenly felt the ground disappear under his feet. As he fell down, the being's rumbling voice echoed around him.

"We will meet again, Thomas Ashworth."

Right when he thought he was going to hit the ground, he woke with a start in his own bed…

…

Fluent in a mythical language? Check. Suddenly paranormally gifted? Check. Burdened with glorious purpose? Check. Utterly pissed? Double check. Thomas stood in front of his bathroom mirror, and tried to determine if he might be crazy. Too bad insanity didn't show like a rash, it would be so much easier to diagnose… He wondered what Maglor would have to say about it all. A bit of practical advice would be nice…

Suddenly, an idea sparked in Thomas' head. He could draw the mystery being and the surroundings from his dream, and then perhaps the elf could tell him more about it when he arrived. It would at least give him something to do besides worrying and being on the lookout for ghosts... Thomas wondered how they would look. Would he even notice the difference with living people? Maybe they looked exactly the same, and just went about their business like normal people, only invisible to everyone else. That would be awkward…

* * *

"He's in a terrible mood today."

"Oh?"

"Yes, he keeps trying to draw something, but he can't seem to manage, with all expected consequences. He's been ripping paper and throwing things around all day." Anita Beardsley raised her eyebrows at Maglor. "Are you certain you don't want to postpone the therapy until he has calmed down a bit?"

"My presence might be calming to him."

The blonde's incredulous look clearly said that he didn't know what he was getting into.

"Well, it's your call! Don't tell me I didn't warn you when he throws a plant pot at your head though!"

"Don't worry, Dr Beardsley. I have a hard head."

She chuckled.

"A hardhat might be safer… " They had again reached the door of room 27. "I have an appointment now, so you're on your own."

"I'm sure I will manage."

"Well, good luck!"

"Thank you."

He entered the room to find Thomas on the bed, exasperatedly tearing sheets of paper from his sketchbook.

"Wrong, wrong, it's all WRONG!"

He looked –and sounded- a frightening lot like Fëanor in one of his "inspired" bouts of fury, Maglor noted. Carefully he asked,

"What is wrong?"

The boy looked up with a wild and tormented look in his eyes.

"This! Everything! I see it like it's right in front of me, but I CAN'T DRAW IT! It's like my pen refuses to capture his face! GAH!"

Maglor looked at the crumpled drawings littering the floor. Black eyes, and lots of hair, bits and pieces of faces but never a complete likeness… he was starting to understand what had happened.

"You dreamed of Lord Námo, the Vala of the Dead."

That seemed to draw Thomas from his frustration.

"What?"

Maglor gestured at the drawings.

"Trying to catch his likeness in any medium is a futile endeavour. Lord Námo is as solid and yet immaterial as his halls. No matter how clear the memory, it cannot be reproduced."

Thomas seemed to take that information in strife, and his rage disappeared, as was it never there. He suddenly grinned.

"Neat trick. Criminals would love to know how to do that... No robot photos, no mug shots, no camera footage... they'd be untraceable!"

Maglor suddenly had a mental image of police agents trying to take a mug shot of Námo. He suppressed a slightly blasphemous chuckle.

"I don't think Lord Námo has ever considered taking advantage of this quality in such a manner… But tell me, what do you know now?"

"Apparently I see dead people."

"What?"

"For some reason I can see the souls of the dead who refused to go to the afterlife after they died. And I have to convince them to go to the afterlife anyway."

"That's your task?"

Thomas nodded.

"He also mentioned something about extremely old souls who only speak Quenya and have been lost for a long time. I specifically have to find those, for some reason."

Maglor's heart clenched, as he instantly, instinctively knew whose souls it concerned. He had hoped that they would have found peace, but he had doubted it, given the doom they had called over themselves, the violent ways they had died, and the general stubbornness of their fëar. And now…

"Did he say anything else?"

The boy disrespectfully rolled his eyes.

"No. He was totally vague. I really wonder why this Lord Námo person didn't make you his chosen therapist-for-the-dead. I mean; you already are a therapist, and you already speak Quenya, and you have thousands of years of experience, while I… what the hell am I supposed to say to those souls that will make them reconsider the afterlife?"

"He will have had his reasons."

Maglor knew well enough what those reasons were, but he wasn't ready to share it. There hung a silence between them. At long last, Thomas asked.

"So, what do we do now?"

"We start looking for ghosts."

If the Valar could lead him to Thomas, they could also lead them to the right places, the right fëar. They would just need to have faith, and patience. Lots of patience.

**(Author's Apologies)**

**I'm finally writing again! And guess what… I'm trying to write something serious this time! It might still turn to humor, but I don't think so. This is my first attempt at writing something that isn't total crack, so feedback would be incredibly appreciated.**

**First of all; I'm not a Quenya expert, and I doubt I will ever be. The Quenya used in this will be very limited. Basically all Thomas says here is "do you understand me" and "fuck off, be gone from my sight". **

**Wernicke's Aphasia is an actual condition in which someone speaks fluently but only meaningless nonsense. Writing ability is also gone. This condition comes with heavy brain damage most of the time, which makes it hard to determine exactly how much the patient is still capable of understanding. I'm not a doctor, but I did research the condition, and I think that someone who suddenly speaks an unidentifiable language after receiving massive brain damage could really be diagnosed with it. **

**Thomas is very angry and frustrated. The issue of his last living family member dying in the car crash wasn't addressed here because Thomas hasn't addressed it himself yet either. His world was so thoroughly shaken by the loss of his communication abilities that he didn't even think to mourn his father. **

**I'm not sure how well I did sketching the character of Thomas, I'd really like some feedback on how that worked out. **

**PLEASE REVIEW? As I mentioned, this is my first serious non-humor story, and I would really like to know what you think of it. Harshness is allowed as long as it's formulated politely ;)**


	2. Ghostbusters

The idea had popped up during one of their language classes; instead of going out to look for ghosts, they should let the ghosts come to them. And so their little project had been born: Smith & Ashworth, Paranormal Investigations. Thomas still thought it was utterly ridiculous, but then, everything about this situation was, so he just went with it. Also, he didn't really have a better plan.

He hadn't thought they would receive much reaction to the sober website, but apparently there were quite a few people in need of a medium. He could hardly believe how many people thought their house was bewitched, their dead lover was stalking them, or a murder had happened in their apartment… Many messages were obviously written as a joke or by a mentally ill individual, but there were some that stood out. Their site had been online for only two weeks when the first really interesting email popped in.

…

_Dear Mr Smith and Mr Ashworth,_

_My name is Suzy Holland. I am 26 years old, and single mother of a little girl. I've never been a superstitious person, and I never thought to need a psychic at any point in my life, but things have just gone too far and I am honestly desperate for help. Your site looked trustworthy enough, and your address wasn't so far from my home, so I thought to give it a chance. _

_My problems all begin around my daughter Hayley's 5__th__ birthday, when she made an "imaginary friend". We had only just moved to a new home and I thought she was having a bit of a hard time adjusting, so I indulged her; I put an extra plate at the table, read two bedtime stories, asked her friend's opinion on things… you can probably imagine it. I was only trying to be considerate of her feelings! _

_However, after a while, I started to notice strange things about this imaginary friend of hers. In all her drawings he was depicted as an angry adult man, almost four times her size. I don't know what your first thoughts at that are, but mine certainly weren't good. And the things she told me about him! Hayley has never even lost a grandparent, but her imaginary friend has apparently lost all his family to war, and she even gave me detailed descriptions of how his little brother had been run through with a sword and how he had held him while he chocked on his own blood. What five-year-old invents things like that? I first believed she had seen it on TV or something, but with all that happened afterwards I don't think so anymore… _

_Things really took a turn for the worse after I had promised Hayley we would go to an amusement park, but then a colleague fell ill and I couldn't take the day off. When I told her, she threw a tantrum like I had never seen before; I thought she was having an attack of some sort! She kept screaming at me that I had to keep my promises and that I had to do what I promised or bad things would happen and I would die and everyone would die… She didn't throw a tantrum because the outing was cancelled, but because she truly believed I was going to die for not keeping my promise. I couldn't for the life of me imagine where she had gotten that idea, but she was honestly terrified. She eventually cried herself to sleep, and I thought it would be all right after that… But then, when I came home from work the next day our living room was in shambles. Chairs had been thrown about, the sofa had been toppled, my plant pots were broken, red crayon had been scribbled all over the walls… it was a right mess. I reported it as vandalism, but there were no signs of breaking and entering. I assumed Hayley would be scared at the thought of someone breaking into our house, but when I tried to reassure her she calmly told me that she wasn't scared at all. Her friend had wrecked the living room, because I had upset her and that had made him angry. She didn't even seem to consider this a bad thing!_

_And that was only the first of more such occurrences. They mostly weren't and aren't so violent, but still… notable. Hayley's imaginary friend takes up literal space in our household. When I don't set the table for him too, I am sure to be buying new crockery the next day. No one sits on "his" chair anymore, or puts stuff in "his" corner. And if I upset Hayley… I don't even want to go there. I feel like a tyrannical presence has seized my home. I feel watched, and if I didn't have all this proof that something is really wrong I would think I'm going crazy._

_Is this a ghost, a demon, something else? I don't know what to do anymore; I just know that I can't live like this. And it can't be healthy for my daughter either to have this thing latched on to her! _

_Please help us, I beg of you. _

_Sincerely,_

_Suzy Holland._

…

Maglor had paled while reading that email.

"We have to go here."

Thomas felt discomforted by the woman's story; if they threw in some dead animals it wouldn't make a bad plot for a horror movie…

"Do we have to?"

"I am certain. This is one of the spirits you are looking for."

Damn.

"Then there is no escaping it, I guess… Am I even allowed to leave the clinic?"

Maglor shrugged.

"Well, you have passed your majority, and lately you haven't caused much problems, so I don't see why you wouldn't be. If necessary, I can always say it's for your therapy."

He had indeed been on his best behaviour lately. Having someone to talk to had lessened the frequency of his temper tantrums, and for Maglor's sake he refrained from purposefully annoying the nurses. Not to mention that his English language classes were slowly yet steadily paying off. He had a horrible accent, a small vocabulary, and a seriously lacking understanding of grammar, but it was better than nothing… So far he hadn't swallowed his pride and showed his renewed understanding of the language to anyone but Maglor, but it was endlessly pleasing to no longer be completely isolated.

As predicted the hospital staff made no issue of him going on an outing, although they did want him to wear a large card with his name, address and phone number on around his neck. The humiliation was almost too much to bear, especially because Maglor seemed to find his barely repressed indignation rather amusing. In the car, Thomas angrily threw the card in the backseat.

"I hate these people."

"They are just trying to help you. They aren't villains, most of them are quite nice."

"Nice maybe, but they have obviously never heard of letting someone keep his dignity."

"It is only humiliating because you perceive accepting their help as such. You could have made much more progress in English already if you had allowed them to help you."

"I refuse to be treated like a retard. If they can't help me in a decent way, I don't need their help."

"And by refusing their help, you reinforce their perception that you indeed are what you call a retard. I think the politically correct term is mentally challenged."

"I don't give a rat's ass about politically correct. Can we talk about something else?"

They were silent for the rest of the trip.

* * *

Thomas was not easy-going or overly pleasant, but Maglor didn't think he had a bad character. He was just… very angry. Mad at everything. Mad at the world. Mad because it all wasn't fair. It was the kind of anger that continued to eat at you because it was both too big and too petty to put in words; Maglor knew the feeling well enough.

Thomas' rage reminded him of his brother Maedhros, after Thangorodhrim. After the fever, and the uncertain days when he would only stare emptily at the walls, the anger had come. No one was allowed to look at him. No one was allowed to help him. Even simply addressing him could cause a frightening outburst. Yet that anger had saved him in the end, though the process hadn't been easy on any of them. Earlier, Maglor might have thought that Maedhros' strength and ability to pull through had been Eldarin qualities… but by now he had witnessed enough humans showing remarkable feats of strength in the direst of situations to know this wasn't true. Illúvatar had given the gift of perseverance to all his children, and Maglor dared say perhaps in greater quantity to the Aftercomers. In any case, it was far less disconcerting to see a bit of Maedhros in Thomas, than to see the shadow of Fëanor in him.

Maglor's mind turned to the task ahead. What would they find? The feeling he got when he read the email was as close to true precognition as he had ever come… Could it truly be the spirit of one of his brothers that was haunting that young girl? None of his brothers had ever shown much interest in mortals, let alone enough interest to want to occupy themself with one of their children… but then, millennia of disembodied loneliness could change a person, and Maglor wasn't sure he wanted to contemplate in what ways. He remembered very well what had been said about fëar who refused the call of Mandos; that they were evil, or soon would be, as the strain of a disembodied existence twisted mind and fëa beyond repair. If his intuition were right… would there be anything left of his brothers?

…

After the initial introductions, and a quick but well thought-out story about being born and raised in Africa to explain Thomas' language issues, they found themselves at Suzy Holland's kitchen table. She was a rather plain woman with watery blue eyes and light brown curls, and the big bags under her eyes didn't do her any favours. She seemed completely exhausted.

"I am so glad you could come. I think I told you most in my letter, but if there's anything else…"

"Is Hayley at home?"

"Yes, of course. I think the thing is always with her, so it wouldn't make sense to have you here while she was in school…" She bit her lip. "Do… do you think you can make it leave? Or exorcise it, or what it is that you do? Will it work?"

Maglor smiled kindly at the woman.

"We will try our very best, Mrs Holland. Could we talk to Hayley for a moment?"

"Of course." She smiled back a little coquettishly, pushing some curls behind her ear. "And please, call me Suzy. Mrs Holland is my mother."

"All right."

Suzy called out,

"Hayley! There are some people who want to talk to you here!"

"Coming!"

A small girl's voice answered immediately, and a moment later said small girl came into the kitchen. She was a cute little thing, with her mother's curls, caught in two pigtails, and a pair of curious, bright green orbs. Maglor's eyes were immediately draw to the wooden toy sword strapped to the girl's waist; by the wear of the hilt and the multiple dents in the blade he could tell it was a beloved possession… She frowned suspiciously at them.

"Who're they?"

Suzy smiled a little strainedly.

"Hayley, these are Maka and Thomas, two friends of mine. They are interested in… your friend." She hesitated for a moment. "Is he with you now?"

For some reason, the girl's suspicion fell away immediately when she caught sight of Maglor.

"No, he's watching my stove so the soup doesn't burn." She grinned widely at them. "We're playing house."

Maglor tried to imagine one of his brothers dutifully watching over the play-kitchen of a little human girl, and failed royally. He playfully raised an eyebrow at the girl.

"With a sword?"

"Not really, but Moryo says you should never be without a sword." She sagely looked at Maglor. "Enemies are everywhere. You must always be ready to defend yourself."

Moryo. Caranthir. Of all his brothers, it had to be sulky, cantankerous, easily angered Caranthir. Maglor wanted to shake his head in disbelief.

"That… Certainly there are no enemies in your own home?"

Hayley shrugged.

"No, but it's good to practice."

"I see; that's true indeed. Is Moryo nice to you? Doesn't he get angry a lot?"

"Oh no, he is always very nice to me! And he pushed Billy off the jungle gym when he pulled my skirt up. Moryo is my best friend. He only gets angry when people hurt me." Hayley fumbled a bit with her toy sword. "He gets sad a lot though, because his brothers are all gone. Bad people killed them."

"Bad people?"

More fumbling.

"It's kinda complicated. Moryo says they weren't bad, but mommy says good people don't make others dead, so they must be bad."

Children's idea of the world was so honestly black and white… Maglor couldn't even remember having been like that. He sighed inwardly, but kept up a smile.

"I see. And what do you and Moryo talk about, most of the time?"

She shrugged.

"Oh, just stuff. School, and how I have to hold my sword. He also likes to watch Disney videos. And Cartoon Network."

His warlike, angry brother watching cartoons and fairy tales? Voluntarily? And enjoying it? For all his imagination, Maglor couldn't form himself an image of that…

"You know, your mommy told me that you always keep your promises. Is that true?"

She nodded fervently.

"It's most important. You should never make a promise you can't keep. Moryo says if you do so, bad things will happen, and people will die. He says that's why people made his brothers dead, for a promise."

Maglor swallowed thickly…

* * *

While Maglor conversed with Hayley, Thomas slipped into the living room. He wanted to know if there really was a spirit, and if so, what it would look like. He didn't have to search long for it; in a corner of the room, crammed between a plastic kid's kitchenette and a cheap IKEA bookshelf, sat a tall elf with long black hair, dressed in a black tunic and breeches. Even without the period costume and the sword strapped to his belt, there would have been no doubt that this was no normal living being… Thomas felt it the moment he caught sight of it.

The elf seemed to be not all there, in a visual sense. Looking at the ghost was a bit like looking at a picture on a glitchy computer screen; even when you couldn't see the missing pixels, you could tell something was off about it. He appeared solid, but at the same time not, a bit like that Lord Námo character.

Thomas carefully observed the ghost. He didn't immediately look like the ideal friend for a small child… but he did look a lot like Maglor. Thomas wasn't stupid; this was too big a coincidence to actually be a coincidence. With some effort he kept his annoyance under control. Getting mad wouldn't help the situation; he would make sure to grill Maglor about all this later, but now he had a dead elf to take care of. And who knew, maybe all elves looked like each other, he had no way to tell after all.

He wasn't a person of many words. Never had been, and not having anyone to talk to for almost a year hadn't improved his conversation skills. He didn't have a clue of what to say to a dead person… How had Hayley called the ghost again, Morio or something like that? His mind had drawn a blank, but the moment he thought of that name, all of a sudden the words he needed tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"Moryo, why are you still here?"

It came out with more strength than he had intended, and the ghost looked at him with a start, as if he only now noticed Thomas' presence. With wide eyes he stared at him, the anxious look on his face giving it an almost childlike quality.

"You can't be here. It's not you." The voice was old, but just like the spirit's face it was somehow innocent as well. "You burned, left us."

Thomas decided to ignore that, and continue his questioning.

"Why are you still here?"

"It was too dark, and the way was closed. I was lost." Moryo's eyes hazed over and his appearance became a little more vague. He drew his knees against his chest. "So lost…"

"Are you still lost?"

He nodded vaguely, his eyes still unfocused.

"Lost. I failed… failed to protect…" A shiver ran through his form. "He never made it easy… and I wasn't the best brother I guess… but I still promised I would keep him safe…" Another shiver racked through him, and all of a sudden, the lost look in his eyes made place for anger. A deep frown twisted his face into a bitter scowl, and a heated blush coloured his cheeks. He glared at Thomas, and his voice was powerful when he spoke up. "But then, I promised a lot didn't I? We all did. We did everything for you! Everything! You promised us the world and we gladly doomed ourselves for you!"

The ghost appeared ready to draw his sword at Thomas, who decided that he had never been in so weird a situation before. Did he perhaps look like someone this ghost had known? Moryo seemed to ask himself the same question, his anger fading into wide-eyed confusion again as he cocked his head to the side and took a good look at Thomas. His voice was oddly airy and devoid of any rage when he mumbled,

"No, not for you. Not you-you, I mean. It's not you, is it?"

He seemed at least as perplexed by it all as Thomas was… Thomas knew he had to make use of the ghost's calm moments though, as he suspected this one was particularly temperamental. He really did not want to find out if ghostly swords could still kill you…

"I wonder what you want with little Hayley."

Moryo was unexpectedly rational when he explained it.

"I have to protect her. She has no brothers, no father to teach her how to hold a sword. She doesn't know how to defend herself, and the world is full of peril. I can't fail her too. I failed my brothers already. I failed everyone." The rationality disappeared as suddenly as it had arisen, and a moment later, Moryo was sobbing. "I tried. I tried so hard, father... C-can you f-forgive me?"

Thomas was struck speechless for a moment. How on earth did this elf mistake him for his father? He was still wondering what he should do, when Maglor, little Hayley and her mother entered the living room. The girl immediately ran to Caranthir and wrapped her arms around him. She glared at Thomas.

"You made him cry!"

That was easy enough to understand, even for someone with his limited knowledge of English. A little indignant, he answered her,

"Not with purpose!"

Hayley ignored him in favour of comforting Moryo. When he looked aside, he caught Maglor's eyes. He frowned at the elf.

"_You and I are going to have a serious conversation when this is over, mark my words!"_

Maglor looked shocked, making Thomas wonder if he really made as scary a face as the nurses liked to make him believe. Turning back, he found that Hayley was comfortingly patting Moryo's hair while the spirit leant in to her touch. It made him wonder how the hell he was going to get this elf to the afterlife, as he was obviously very attached to Hayley…

Moryo's tears subsided under the loving attention of the little girl, and a little later he sat curled up in the corner with a distant look in his eyes, calmly sucking his thumb like a small child. Hayley sat next to him, and sent both Thomas and Maglor a glowering look. Most seriously she stated,

"You hurt him. I should have your head for that."

Thomas wondered if he had really just been threatened with decapitation by a six-year-old, or if something had gotten lost in translation. He shrugged a little helplessly.

"Not mean to."

"What do you want with him? Can't you just leave us alone?"

Before he could come up with an intelligible answer, Maglor answered in his stead.

"We only want to bring him home."

Hayley shook her head.

"He can't go home. It's like our old house; when we left we had to give the keys to the new people, and now we can never go back there. We are ix… err… e-exiled from it."

* * *

Maglor couldn't see his brother, but he felt him. Like all elves, he was sensitive to the energy of spirits, and he felt Caranthir like he had felt the anger in Thomas' room. It sent shivers down his spine, sensing his brother so close after not having felt a familiar spirit in ages... He watched Hayley run to a seemingly empty corner of the room, and for a moment he thought he spotted someone there. When he blinked it was gone though, and he only saw the little girl hugging thin air. Despite everything, that brought a smile to his face. Little Hayley was a very perceptive child, and she accepted Caranthir's presence with remarkably unbiased pragmatism. He was there, and that was it; she didn't need more explanation. She understood him through some kind of intuitive osanwë, and even though he was not truly tangible to her, she seemed to be able to comfort him with her touch. From the things she had so innocently told him Maglor could tell that Hayley truly cared for his brother. She had said that Moryo was looking after her, but he had the feeling that she was looking after him even more…

When he regarded Thomas for some clue as to what had happened, he was met with an angry stare, and a voice suddenly sounded in his head.

"_You and I are going to have a serious conversation when this is over, mark my words!"_

Maglor couldn't suppress a shudder. He was thousands of years old, but the chastising voice of his father could still make him feel like a naughty elfling. How could this young mortal sound exactly like Fëanor in mind? How was it possible? The Noldo suspiciously eyed Thomas, who apparently had no idea of the reaction he had caused. Exasperated, Maglor cursed to himself. Damned Valar and their missions… There had to be more to this task than Námo had told Thomas, he was sure of it. He also had the feeling that when they found out, neither of them was going to like it…

Meanwhile, Hayley was very affronted at Thomas for making her friend cry. She also seemed to have a strange idea of what exile entailed; knowing what he knew, Maglor didn't know if it was funny or sad. Apparently Suzy hadn't been so far off when she thought her daughter had difficulties adjusting to her new home…

"But if the new people gave you the keys back, you could return to your old house, no?"

"I… I guess…" Hayley paused, and Maglor smiled encouragingly.

"You told me Moryo is sad a lot. Don't you want him to go home, to be with his family again?"

"But his family is dead, he told me so!"

He hesitated.

"So is Moryo, Hayley. He has been dead for a long time, that's why no one can see him."

The girl frowned, trying to make sense of that. Eventually she asked,

"Then will he go to heaven?"

She blinked at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Now what was he supposed to say to that? In the end, he just nodded.

"I think so. He will go somewhere safe, where there is no pain and he can be with his family again."

Hayley thought about that.

"Will he not be sad anymore then?"

"Maybe a little bit at first, but less and less over time, because he'll be with his brothers and his father again."

"That is good, I think…"

Maglor took a look at Thomas, and figured that his "companion" would not be able to make much progress if Hayley continued to sit next to Caranthir like a vigilant guard dog. He wished he could do more for his brother… but he supposed he would have to trust Námo's judgement and let Thomas do his job.

"Why don't we go to the kitchen? Your mommy had some very good chocolate biscuits there, if I remember correctly…"

Hayley looked hesitatingly at the spot where Moryo sat. She was ready to protest.

"But I…"

"Thomas needs to talk to Moryo for a bit, alone. He won't make him cry again."

"Promise?"

"I can't promise that, but I'm sure he will try his very best."

"Oh… okay."

* * *

"Moryo?"

Slowly, the spirit's eyes focussed again. He tiredly looked at Thomas.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm here for you. You've been exiled for long enough. It's time to go home."

The dead elf slowly shook his head.

"I failed…"

"No, you did all you could. No one could have asked more."

"You asked more. You always did."

Thomas hesitated for a moment, but then he decided to use the identity confusion to his advantage.

"I was wrong in that. I did not have the right to ask those things of you. It was I who failed you Moryo, not the other way round."

Moryo's eyes went wide with disbelief at that.

"But... we couldn't… I didn't…"

"Námo sent me for you. You don't have to wander anymore."

Thomas wasn't sure how it happened, but suddenly he had a lap full of sobbing adult elf. Moryo had apparently forgotten he did not exactly have the same size as little Hayley… As he shifted to accommodate the weight, Thomas decided it at least proved that the dead were tangible to him. A little lost, he patted the spirit's hair as he had seen the little girl do.

"There… there… Sssh… It's all right…"

…

_The polished stones were slick with blood, the air laden with the stench of death. The hall was filled with dead and dying, haphazardly splayed over the floor, bleeding out precious red as their life left them. He drew himself up as far as he managed, dragging his wounded body further while his trembling hands slipped in the puddles of blood. From the throne room, he heard the clamour of swords, shouting, vaguely familiar. The sounds were warped to his ears, and he barely registered them. They were no longer important. _

_The room shifted, tilted... His arms had given out. The pain that had been dulled somehow flared up again, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Next to him, a laboured breath formed his name. _

"_C-Caranthir…"_

_Curufin. He turned his head, meeting frightened eyes, glazed already with the veil of death. _

"_I'm here."_

_The pain was not important. He pulled his brother closer, until he felt the clammy skin of his face against his._

"_I-It's so dark…" A rattling cough shook Curufin's body, colouring his lips red. "S-so dark…"_

"_I'm here. It's all right. Sssh."_

_It wasn't all right. It hadn't been all right since they had left Aman and now it would never be all right again. But that wasn't important now. He softly stroked matted black hair and bloodied skin, whispered calming words while his brother fought to breathe. _

"_C-Caranthir… I-I'm s-scared…"_

_So was he. He didn't say it. _

"_Don't be… d-don't be scared. It w-will be over soon."_

_Everything was silent all of a sudden. The stone canopy of Menegroth no longer echoed the sounds of battle. There were no more screams, no more clanking of metal on metal and metal on stone, no more moans of the dying. Night had fallen like a shroud, and the light didn't shine through the trees anymore. It was so dark… Next to him, Caranthir heard a choking noise, a broken sigh. He softly patted his brother's head._

"_There. It's over."_

_And it was. The last light disappeared behind the horizon, and everything went black. _

…

Wow. That was… intense. Thomas' heart was hammering in his chest… He closed his eyes and opened them again, just to make sure that he wasn't dying on the floor of some forest-palace anymore. He still had Moryo –Or Caranthir, he wasn't sure anymore- in his arms, but the elf's crying had stilled and he now just sat curled up against Thomas' chest. Which made for an odd position, as the elf was far taller than him. Thomas continued to stroke his hair, and wondered what he was supposed to do now.

As on cue, Maglor and Hayley entered the room again, followed by a worried Suzy. Hayley smiled when she saw them. Maglor just gave him an odd look, which he met with an angry stare. Sure, he probably looked bizarre at the moment, but he would like to see that elf when someone who was both invisible and at least a head taller than him was determined to fit on his lap. Not to mention that he still had an egg to peel with his "music therapist"; Maglor better have a good explanation for all this.

Hayley disturbed his thoughts when she sat down next to him and carefully reached out to the spirit, her small hand touching the ghost's large one. With a soft voice she asked,

"Moryo… are you going home now?"

The dead elf turned, almost pushing Thomas over with the movement, and smiled softly at the young girl. He nodded, and Hayley's smile widened as if he had spoken to her.

"I will be okay. I know how to fight now. You don't have to worry."

Next, she shook her head.

"Of course I will miss you. And I will never forget you."

Even from in his uncomfortable position, Thomas thought it was heart-warmingly sweet. The ghost's long, slender fingers caressed the small child's hand held in his.

"I love you, Moryo. You were the bestest friend ever." She bit her lip, and there was a tremor in her voice when she spoke again. "But you should go now, your family is waiting."

And just like that, like a gust of wind, the spirit was gone. Thomas almost tumbled over when he was suddenly released of the weight.

_Well… that went better than I expected… I guess? _

He noticed Hayley was crying, and helplessly looked at Maglor… only to find that the elf looked as if he was about to cry as well.

_Great. Just great. _

* * *

Maglor hadn't known it was possible for a heart to feel like breaking and mending at the same time. Watching Thomas and Hayley, he could see Caranthir as well; distorted and vague as through a mist, but still clear enough to be recognizable. He didn't dare to move his head for fear that the vision would disappear… and while he was watching, reality shifted around him. For a moment, the world froze and everything stilled… and in that single instant he saw the pain fade from Caranthir's eyes, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He smiled, a sight so rare that Maglor had almost forgotten what it looked like… and then he was gone.

It took him a couple moments to gather his wits. When he did, he saw that little Hayley was crying, big tears dripping over her cheeks. Next to him Suzy Holland whispered,

"Is… Is it gone?"

Maglor really wanted to say that his brother was not an It and that he would not stand for him being referred to as such… but he settled for a sigh and a nod. He walked up to Hayley, who regarded him with teary eyes.

"He… He is really gone now, isn't he?"

"Yes. He is gone."

She sniffed.

"I… I already miss him."

"You did well. I know it is very difficult to say goodbye to a friend."

She nodded.

"I d-didn't want him to be sad anymore."

"I know."

"Do you think he is happy now?"

Maglor didn't know, but he nodded.

"I think so."

He said it as much for himself as he did for her… She wiped away her tears and gave him a small, shaky smile.

"Good."

….

After that things were wrapped up rather quickly, and a little later they were sitting in the car again. Thomas was in a truly morose mood, refusing to say anything. Only when he noticed they took a wrong turn, he opened his mouth.

"That is not the road to the clinic."

"I know."

"Where are you taking me?"

"My house. There are some things we need to talk about."

Thomas only huffed, eyes on the road again. Maglor sighed to himself. This would not be easy...

* * *

Caranthir slept peacefully, cradled against his father while the wounds in his fëa slowly healed. Holding him, Fëanor was lost in memories...

Dear, awkward little Carnistir… The Spirit of Fire remembered hundreds of small things about his fourth son's childhood. How he stamped his feet when he didn't get his way, and hid behind Nerdanel's skirts when there were guests, and how fascinated he had been by Nerdanel's growing belly when she was having Curufin. The day he had made his first hunting knife, or that time he had run off in anger and Huan had returned him kicking and screaming by his collar. The countless times that he had turned a game of hide-and-seek into a panicked search by being too good at it. It were little things, flashes of a past long gone that Fëanor hadn't even known his memory had retained. Yet now, as he held his son in his arms again for the first time in ages, it were those small, seemingly insignificant moments that filled his thoughts.

He looked up when a deep, disembodied voice drifted through the dark stones.

"As you can see, I uphold my end of the bargain."

It was not so much a statement as it was an inquiry of sorts; sliding around him like silk ribbons or dark smoke, Fëanor felt the curiosity under the dispassionate words, probing for regrets and second thoughts. He ignored it, tenderly stroking his son's hair.

_How could I regret this? I have sacrificed far more for far less a purpose… Of all I have done, this will be the last thing I ever regret._

"You have changed greatly."

Fëanor didn't answer. He didn't have to.

_I know. _

**(Author's Apologies)**

**I really would like some feedback on how I wrote this. I tried my very best to write Caranthir convincingly, but also truly damaged in mind and fëa by ages of bodiless wandering. I wanted to find a balance between the regression his mind went through, the painful memories and thoughts that hold bits of his old self, and his sense of being lost in a world he no longer understands. It wasn't easy, so as I said, feedback would be nice.**

**Caranthir's attachment to Hayley is the last in a long row of such "friendships", in which he clung to a mortal child, driven by remnants of memories and the need to make up for not protecting his brothers. Sensitive children like Hayley could interact with him, and as Maglor noticed, this interaction also protected Caranthir from the worst of the mental decay.**

**As to why Caranthir sees his father when he looks at Thomas, and why Thomas' mind-voice apparently sounds like Fëanor… more will be said on that later, but suggestions and guesses are welcome :)**

**Also, I hope I was consistent with the character of Thomas. I'm not used to writing male OC's, Thomas is my very first one...**

**I will answer any questions gladly! :D**


	3. Mugshots Of The Dead

Standing on the driveway of Maglor's house, Thomas finally popped the question he had been brooding on the entire trip.

"Are you his father?"

Maglor's looked at him in shock.

"What?"

"Are you Moryo's father?" He met the elf's eyes with an almost as intense gaze. "It's a simple question; are you, or are you not?"

Maglor had paled.

"No, I am not."

Thomas sceptically raised an eyebrow.

"I know you couldn't see him, but FYI, you look like him. A lot. Besides, if you really had never heard of this spirit before, why would you be emotional over him passing to the afterlife?"

"I wasn't…"

Thomas made a dismissive gesture.

"Don't give me that. Not understanding shit of what people say teaches you a thing or two about facial expressions, you know. You were emotional, don't deny it."

Maglor sighed in defeat.

"I was. But I am not his father." The elf looked at him sadly. "I am his brother."

_Wonderful. _

"And you didn't think to mention that? Because really, this whole thing wasn't complicated enough without someone hiding vital information!"

"It was not vital…"

"It was obviously vital information, because I had to pretend to be your father to get him to cooperate!" He scowled. "Look, I get that this shit is personal to you. But guess what, because your stupid gods can't keep out of other people's business, it's personal to me too now! And I'm not going to exorcise one more ghost for you unless you tell me exactly what this thing is all about! And not some shady story about shiny rocks and wars in distant lands this time, I want details."

Thomas closed his eyes and tried to get his ire back under control.

"I'm sorry if I'm blunt, but if you want this thing to work, you'll have to work with me. I'm not going to keep doing this by best guess while you sit on all the answers."

"I don't "sit" on all the answers!"

"But you know more than I do, and since I'm the one doing the exorcising around here that's not exactly fair."

Maglor looked as if he had just swallowed something disgusting. After a short silence, he nodded curtly.

"Fine. Come inside, I'll tell you."

"And don't hold back on the drama. I want to know everything."

The elf let out a bitter, humourless chuckle.

"Trust me, if there's anything this story has no lack of, it's drama."

Maglor lived in a small but beautiful house in Art Nouveau style, the kind you sometimes saw featured in magazines for architecture and interior decoration. Everything about it breathed balance and subtle beauty… It wasn't pretentious or showroom-like though; on the contrary, Thomas didn't think he had ever been to so homey and inviting a place before. He might have been biased because he lived in a hospital, but there really was something special about the elf's home. He felt his anger calm at entering, almost as if the house itself comforted him... It was an odd but far from unpleasant sensation. Maglor too visibly relaxed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he turned around to him.

"Come on in. Do take off your shoes, I just cleaned."

…

"And there, at the breaking of the world, I lost my last remaining brother. Maedhros threw himself in the fiery chasms, taking the Silmaril with him… And I… I cast mine away, into the sea. And that was the end of it."

With that, Maglor finished his tale. Thomas blinked at him, not quite knowing what to say. What did you say after a story like that?

"Wow. That… that was…" He shook his head, not being able to find the words. "I'm sorry."

Maglor curtly shrugged.

"It was a long time ago."

Thomas wasn't fooled. He hadn't lied when he had told the elf that he was good at reading faces; it was easy to see that beneath his impassive mask, Maglor was very upset. However, he knew well enough what it was like to be caught in a moment of weakness, so he didn't call the Noldo out on it. Instead, he tried to bring the conversation to more practical matters.

"So, how many ghosts of your past are we after, exactly?"

Maglor sighed, his face shadowed by sudden weariness.

"My brothers. Perhaps my father too, I don't know. I believe it is the Oath that kept their spirits from passing to the Halls."

"Right… And do you think they will all be haunting convenient locations at riding distance from the clinic?"

He received a scowl at that.

"I don't know. I told you, I don't have all the answers. I don't know where we will find them, when, how, in what state, I don't know why Námo decided that now was the time to bring them back, I don't know why he messed with your life, I just don't know, okay? I'm as lost as you are!"

Thomas mentally slapped himself. He really shouldn't open his mouth when all he planned to do was sticking his foot in it.

"I didn't mean it like that. It's just that the world is big, technically they could be anywhere."

"If there is any logic in the Valar's actions, it might be that they chose to act now because at this time all the sought spirits are close together."

Maglor didn't sound as if he had much faith in the logical reasoning of the Valar… and Thomas completely understood the sentiment. After all, what logically reasoning deity would pick him for a mission like this?

* * *

It was hard. Thousands of years had passed, and it was still hard to speak about it. Maglor felt as if he had just thrown up, the words tasting like bitter bile in his mouth. Thomas had had a point, he had the right to know what he was dealing with… but it was hard, much harder than he had anticipated. Speaking about the past had brought back things he had long pushed away for the sake of his own sanity… Amrod's broken body on the beach of Sirion. The look in Maedhros' eyes before he threw himself down. The ashes of his father caught in the wind. Curufin and Caranthir's last embrace in the halls of Menegroth. The crooked smile gracing Celegorm's dead lips. The screams he had later imagined to hear over the roaring fire in Losgar. Maglor clenched his burned hand. He could not escape the memories anymore now...

On the couch, Thomas eyed him with a mixture of nervousness and worry. There was no anger in his expression, and it passed through Maglor's mind that the boy was rather handsome when he didn't glare as if the world had gravely offended him. However, the intense, inquisitive look Thomas had over him was so alike Fëanor that it sent a jolt of sudden recognition down his spine... And if he had understood the boy's words correctly, he wasn't the only one who had noticed the elusive, indefinable resemblance.

"You said you pretended to be my father to make Caranthir cooperate."

Thomas nodded.

"Yeah. It wasn't even on purpose; he saw me and for some reason he thought I was his dad. In the end I just went with it, and that did the trick."

"You… went with it?"

He shrugged.

"I didn't mean to be disrespectful or anything, I just said what felt right. I didn't really think much about it, it all sort of happened by itself." He looked at his feet. "He wanted forgiveness, you know. Moryo. He begged me for forgiveness, saying he had failed me."

Maglor's nails dug into his skin hearing that. Unaware, Thomas continued.

"I… I told him that it was all right, that he had done all he could, that he hadn't failed… I had no idea what it was all about, but I felt I had to tell him that. I think he really needed to hear it." Now Thomas looked at him again, apprehensively. "Your father… He wouldn't have forgiven him, would he? I mean… from what you told me, I take it that he wasn't exactly the type to ever admit he was wrong."

Maglor bitterly smiled at that.

"He was a troubled individual, my father."

Thomas shook his head.

"Yeah right, that's like saying Hitler somewhat disliked Jews. No offence, but your father sounds like he had issues the size of the sun."

Maglor sighed.

"You did not know him. I can't deny that he was a very difficult person, but he wasn't evil. In his own way he meant well, for all of us."

He had to think that. He had to hold on to that thought, because the alternative was too painful to even consider. Thomas huffed.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think he was a selfish bastard."

_Yes, that he was. That he was indeed._

* * *

Thomas wondered if he had perhaps gone too far when Maglor suddenly got up. The elf didn't look as if he was about to defend his father's good name though.

"Come along, there's something I want to show you."

Maglor led him further into the house, into some sort of armoury. Two walls were decorated entirely with weapons of all kinds; glittering swords, old bows, daggers, spears, and even an antique musket, and Thomas didn't doubt that they had all been fervently used in their own time. On the wall right over the door hung a large baroque portrait of a serious man in an elegant 18th century outfit, complete with lacy ruches, brocade and curly wig. It was rather fascinating to see that someone could look so grave and so ridiculous at the same time… Thomas looked at Maglor, who was thoughtfully considering the wall of weaponry, and at the portrait, and then at Maglor again, and couldn't suppress a snigger. The elf turned, and seeing what had drawn Thomas' attention he solemnly said,

"The 18th century was a very trying time, sartorially speaking. I didn't think my scalp would ever recover from them hard-handedly removing all my hair. Also, if you think that outfit looks ridiculous, you should have seen me in the 16th century. Thankfully no one thought to capture that for posterity."

The laughter that followed was relieving, and Thomas felt the awkward tension between them break.

"What is the worst thing you've ever had to wear?"

Most seriously, the elf stated,

"A giant codpiece. It also served as a pocket for my coin purse."

Thomas tried to imagine it, and burst out laughing again.

"So you had to reach into your crotch to get your money?"

"Exactly. And it was entirely socially acceptable."

Thomas shook his head.

"Damn… People were weird…"

"Not weirder than they are now, believe me."

Thomas still chuckled a bit, but the light atmosphere changed when Maglor reached into a drawer and took out a long object wrapped in silk. He carefully handled it, as if it might break any moment, and slowly removed the fabric to reveal a gleaming sword with an elegantly curved blade. A deep sigh escaped him.

"A blade is the sharpest retort."

Thomas raised his eyebrows at that.

"What?"

"That is what my father said when he showed us his work. We didn't understand it right away… The concept of an object solely for the purpose of ending other life was something frighteningly new, and the things it made possible… they hadn't even been contemplated before."

The elf seemed lost in thought, his fingers tracing the graceful curve of the blade. Thomas couldn't help but feel drawn to it…

"It's beautiful."

Maglor nodded, and once again there was something old and weary in his voice when he spoke.

"Yes… yes it is. All that my father made was beautiful. Even the most rudimentary utensil he crafted had a touch of refinement. He wouldn't stand for ugliness… for imperfection... All his creations had to be flawless." He beckoned Thomas to come closer, and handed him the sword. "Here. Hold it."

Thomas' eyes widened.

"But… I can't…"

Maglor shook his head.

"You won't damage it. I assure you it's quite sturdy. Just be careful of the blade, it's still sharp."

The sword was surprisingly lightweight for something so large. Thomas eyed it suspiciously. The hilt felt comfortable and warm in his hand, and the blade seemed to hum with anticipation… It was almost as if the metal responded to his touch. The feeling would have been alarming if it hadn't been accompanied by a strange sense of familiarity. He slowly moved his hand, watching the light reflect on the glistening blade as on a precious gem. A shiver ran down his back. Part of him felt instinctively repulsed by the sword, wanted to throw it back on the silk and never touch it again… but at the same time, something deep inside him never wanted to let go of it.

"This was my father's sword."

Maglor's sad voice broke him from his musings. Thomas quickly put the blade back on its silken sheet, feeling both relief and regret at the weight leaving his hand. The elf gave him a strange look.

"I think you should have it."

Thomas' mouth fell open. Of all things he had expected, this was not it.

"What? But… You can't do that; it's your father's sword! Isn't it like… an heirloom or something? And what the hell would I do with it?"

The Noldo was adamant despite his protests.

"I still think you should have it. Lying in this drawer it is of no use to anyone."

Yeah, and lying under his mattress it would be so useful. Thomas frowned at the elf.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Call it a presentiment." Maglor wrapped the sword again and handed it to him. "It might prove useful to you one of these days."

The thought that he might need a sword some time soon was not exactly reassuring… and the fact that it had belonged to Maglor's infamous dad didn't sit well with him either. Thomas didn't trust it, at all. There was something else that Maglor wasn't telling him, and he didn't like it one bit...

* * *

He didn't really know why he had shown Thomas the sword, what he had thought to prove with it… He also didn't know why he had all of a sudden known for sure that the sword had to go to the boy. It might have been because of his perfect grip on the hilt right from the moment he picked it up, the sword lying as comfortable in his hand as a pen or a piece of cutlery. Most people held a sword wrongly the first time they took it up; teaching the right way was usually the first lesson in weapons training. That Thomas, who Maglor suspected had never even seen a sword from close-by before, instinctively knew how to do it was nothing short of incredible.

No one had used Fëanor's sword after his death; it had simply felt wrong. Not even Curufin, who was most alike him, had felt at ease with it in his hand. It was sometimes said that elven blades were picky in who they allowed to handle them, that once a blade had been forged and used in battle, it became attuned to the personality of its owner, making it unsuitable for people of different temperament. Maglor had certainly believed that to be true for his father's blade… To him the sword had always felt contrary, as if it would wriggle out of his hand were it able to do so. That Thomas seemingly had no such experiences only strengthened Maglor's idea that he should have it.

Maglor couldn't really put his finger on what made Thomas so alike his father sometimes, but it had to be something more fundamental than a lisped s and a couple uncanny mannerisms, or Moryo's spirit wouldn't have confused them, and Fëanor's blade would not have fit so perfectly in his hand. What had the Valar planned with this? He kept pondering on the issue all the way back to the clinic, and from the fact that Thomas didn't even complain when he had to put on his "address card" again, he took that his companion was at least as preoccupied...

* * *

Smuggling the sword into the hospital had required surprisingly little smuggling. He had simply walked in with the silk-wrapped package under his arm, and no one had even asked what it was. Supposedly they didn't think anyone would give something potentially dangerous to a speech-impaired retard… Putting the sword on the bottom of his clothes rack, Thomas wondered what he was supposed to do now. The day had brought a lot of new impressions, many of which he didn't quite know how to process. He had met and "exorcised" his first ghost, found out that his speech therapist had a life story to rival most Greek myths, received a mysterious elven sword along with the promise that he would have to use it someday… Looking back on all that, he should congratulate himself for staying so relatively calm! Relatively being the key word there.

He decided to draw to release some of his nervousness. Not for the sake of shocking the nurses this time, just to clear his head. He didn't start with a clear image in mind, but his pen hadn't hit the paper or Caranthir's features took form on it. Frowning in anger, staring emptily, sucking his thumb, smiling at Hayley… As impossible it had been to draw the face of Námo, so easy it was to give shape to Maglor's brother. Thomas didn't quite know why he kept drawing the spirit, but it eased his mind. He dearly hoped not every "exorcism" would wind him up like this, or he might just get a burnout before he was even half through Maglor's doomed family…

…

Life went on. Thomas' language classes slowly progressed, and at least once a week Maglor took him out to hunt for ghosts. Quite often the person who had contacted them didn't have a supernatural problem, only a creaky floor and an overactive imagination… yet there were real cases too. The spirits he encountered were usually more "ghostly" than what he had seen from Moryo; they aimlessly wandered places they had once known, no longer aware of their present surroundings, causing disturbances mostly by accident.

There were angry spirits, who cried and hit things and yelled for people who were long forgotten by the world. Their anger and resentment had consumed their thoughts for so long that now it was all they had left. It were those who generally caused trouble for the current inhabitants of a place, and as such they were the kind Thomas most frequently got to see. There were other spirits too though; sad ones whose pathetic sobs would echo through empty hallways, souls so faded that they didn't even remember why they were still around, small children blissfully oblivious of their own decease… Thomas found that no matter how different they looked, they all had one thing in common. Loneliness. With every spirit he helped, he became more aware of how heartbreakingly lonely they all were, how much they longed for someone to see them, to hear them, to listen to them. Usually all they needed to pass on was someone they could perceive, someone to hold their hand and make them feel like they weren't completely alone. Even the angriest soul would eventually give in to it, their need for contact greater than their rage. It always left Thomas feeling empty. He knew too well what it was like to be stuck like that, without contact or communication…

One day, he made a comment about it to Maglor.

"You know, it's like being dead."

"What is?"

"Not being able to communicate."

"Oh. Well, you have made much progress in English; you should be able to make yourself understood in rudimentary conversation now. If you keep practicing, your communication abilities will improve greatly."

The elf didn't understand it and Thomas didn't know how to properly explain it, so he just nodded.

_Sometimes I think I can speak to spirits because I understand what it is like to be dead. That makes no sense, because I've never been dead… but at times, it does feel that way. _

* * *

"I don't know what you do to him, but it works wonders. He is so calm and collected these days, the people who knew him before hardly believe the changes!"

Anita Beardsley was quite lyrical about Thomas' progress, although she mostly applauded him no longer cursing at the caretakers. Maglor smiled.

"I am always happy to help."

"You certainly helped, Mr Smith. Have you ever considered writing a book about your methods?"

"I'm afraid not, as I do not really have "methods". My approach is entirely person- and case-based; there is unfortunately no miraculous formula to aid all the speech impaired. Sometimes I can help someone, other times all I do is in vain."

"That's a pity... But still, I'm happy that you could do something for Mr Ashworth. We had somewhat given up on him before you came." She smiled. "Forgive me my curiosity, but where do you take him when you go out?"

Maglor shrugged.

"Oh, nowhere special. A zoo, a mall, a funfair… Simply being around people and feeling he still is a part of society does a lot to reduce his anger."

It was a sound excuse for their frequent road-trips… but after saying it Maglor realized it was also rather close to the truth. Dr Beardsley pensively nodded.

"Yes, that… that indeed makes sense." She looked at him with unhidden admiration. "You must be truly dedicated to your work to put so much effort in your patients."

"I like to think I am."

"Well, Thomas is lucky to have you as his therapist. It takes a special kind of person to get through to those who can't communicate."

Thinking about Thomas' ability to speak to the dead, Maglor nodded. It indeed took a special kind of person…

"How is he today?"

"He draws, and thankfully not just corpses anymore. He has taken up portraits lately. I won't say those aren't disturbing, because they really are, they're so lifelike they give me the chills… but at least it's not all blood and gore anymore, that should count for something."

"Good to hear that."

Entering Thomas' room, he found that there were indeed less gruesomely detailed drawings of mangled bodies lying around… But Maglor had to agree with the blonde doctor that what replaced them was no less unsettling. The portraits of various men, women and children didn't lack for realism, but somehow, in some way, Thomas had managed to capture that lost, lonely feeling of being dead and forgotten in them. Eerie was the least you could call it.

_If the Maiar of Mandos were to take mug shots of the dead, this is what it would probably look like._

Regarding the drawings, he suddenly caught sight of a familiar face. There, between sketches of an elderly lady in a regency dress and a young boy, hung a striking portrait of Caranthir. It was drawn in pencil, but Maglor didn't think a photo could have caught his brother's likeness any better. Seeing it, his heart tightened in his chest. Thomas had never known Caranthir in life, and yet he had managed to draw him exactly as he was, catching his essence on paper without ornament or exaggeration. Maglor almost couldn't believe it.

"Can I have that one?"

Thomas looked up from his sketchpad, a little startled, and seeing what Maglor pointed at he nodded.

"Sure, go ahead. Also, do you always sneak around like that? I didn't hear you enter, like, at all."

"Elven trait. We have very silent footsteps."

"Oh. Useful." Thomas exchanged his sketchpad for his laptop. "By the way, I checked our inbox, and we have some new ghost-alerts. From what I understood of them some might be interesting."

After putting the portrait in his bag, Maglor sat down next to Thomas to check their "ghost-alerts", as the boy had dubbed them. He turned out to be right; they had indeed received some seemingly legit messages. One especially drew Maglor's attention…

…

_Hey people of Smith&Ashworth,_

_I hope you don't think this is ridiculous or anything, but I think there is paranormal stuff going on in my place of work. Lately I finally got permission from my boss to have it investigated, and you sort of felt like the right men for the job. You certainly seemed more genuine than Madame Soleil and her tarot cards, for all that says __;)_

_I work part time in a dog shelter (yeah, I know, what kind of ghost haunts a dog shelter, right?) and there have been strange things going on here for far longer than any of the current employees remember. Cages of dogs that are about to be terminated mysteriously open at night, people –including myself- have heard a person crying while there was no one else in the building, some people claim to have seen apparitions, and lately someone was attacked but no one knows by what. That is, by the way, the reason why I got permission to have our resident "ghost" investigated. _

_One of our caretakers, the one who usually does the termination of pets who didn't get adopted in time, went into a cage to pick up a dog when suddenly something flew at his throat. (And it wasn't the dog.) He got away with some scratches, but he claimed he had felt teeth and hands, as if his invisible attacker had been a person. Most of my colleagues think he was a couple cans short of a six-pack that evening and just stumbled over his own feet, but my boss is fairly open-minded so he let me have a shot at this. For the record, I really think we have a ghost of some sort. _

_I do hope you take me seriously. It's not so much that I want the ghost gone per se, but the crying I've heard always sounds so sad, I can't imagine he/she/it is content in our shelter. Please let me know if you think you can help. _

_Best wishes,_

_Caroline Dubois_

_… _

Maglor knew it, the same way he had known it when he read Suzy Holland's message, and this time he had no doubt which one of his brothers they were after.

_Oh Celegorm… what has happened to you?_

**(Author's Apologies)**

**So, this chapter had some things that needed to be said before we could continue with the Great Fëanorian Ghost Hunt. First of all, there is Thomas finally hearing Maglor's story, which is fairly important given that until now he didn't really know what his mission was all about. **

**And then there is the sword, another piece of the puzzle that is Thomas' bizarre resemblance to Fëanor… Thomas had to come into possession of the sword before we could continue, because he IS going to need it in the coming chapters. **

**I also made mention of Thomas "exorcising" other ghosts than the Fëanorians. This is sort of important for the way his character will develop. **

**(Also, for those who are interested, Maglor's 18th century outfit is called a "Habit A La Française", which was very much in fashion at the time. It came in simple and more decorated forms, but for a portrait people generally pulled out all their adornments, so you can assume that Maglor was as ridiculously decked out in frills as humanely (elvishly?) possible. Wigs, also called perukes, were usually made of their owner's own hair, hence why Maglor refers to having all his hair shaven off. It was more hygienic at the time to maintain a bald head and a wig rather than an actual head full of fashionable curls. The coinpurse-codpiece was also a real thing, very big (literally) in the 16th century. Just look up a picture of King Henry VIII and you'll get the gist of it. == thank you Fashion Studies course, for this informative interlude!)**

**Further on, we have some feels, some angst, Thomas being blunt as usual, and the introduction to next chapter's subject. I want to hear what you think about it! **

**Am I still readable? Are my characters still in character? What are your suggestions and theories on Thomas and Fëanor? Did I make horrible errors somewhere? Do tell me! **

**_To Guest: Thank you for your review, it was very much appreciated. I'm happy you like my portrayal of Caranthir; I think he was far more than just "the angry one", and I did try to make that clear._ **

_**To Elrond's Circlet: Thank you for the review, and the correction! I am not a medical student, but I do try to do as much research as I can before writing a character in a certain way. It's very hard to write characters who are a bit "damaged" in a believable manner, so I put extra effort in that. There will be far more plot development, and yes, I hope to make it a bit of a thriller... :)**_


	4. Must Love Dogs

Maglor was even tenser now than he had been for their first excursion… Thomas wondered why. Of course, nobody liked to hear that their brother lived in a dog shelter and violently attacked people, but how much worse than Moryo could it be? This Celegorm might be somewhat less docile than his brother because he lacked an adorable toddler to rein him in, but technically his spirit shouldn't be in much worse condition than Caranthir's; they had died on the same day and in the same manner after all. No, Thomas didn't think there was much reason to worry.

_Maglor worries enough for the two of us anyway._

At the dog shelter, a tiny woman with greying black hair and big horn glasses enthusiastically greeted them. They had only just informed after Caroline Dubois, when she excitedly exclaimed,

"Oh! You must be the paranormal investigation people!"

There was something rather grandmotherly about her, and Thomas decided on the spot that he liked her. She was really very small though; when she came from behind her desk her head barely reached past Maglor's waist. A little awkwardly, the elf looked down on her.

"Yes, indeed. Are you Caroline Dubois?"

The little receptionist shook her head.

"Oh no, I'm Mathilda, I just do the administration here. Caroline asked me to wait you up because she still had some things to do. She should be here any minute now!"

And indeed, Mathilda hadn't finished her sentence or a door banged open, showing a dishevelled and slightly out-of-breath young woman.

"Oh my God I'm so late! Tilly, are they here already?"

She had just the slightest French accent, Thomas noted. Her auburn hair was caught in a messy bun, her clothes and cheeks were stained with dirt, and she was still wearing cleaning gloves. Her already flushed face turned a shade redder when she caught sight of them.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to keep you waiting. I still had some cages to clean out and I forgot the time. I'm sorry! I hope I wasn't too long?"

Maglor amiably smiled at her.

"No need to apologize, we had only just arrived. Miss Dubois, I suppose?"

"Eh, yes, that's me. Just Caroline is fine. You must be Mr…"

"Smith. Maka Smith. This is my companion, Thomas Ashworth. He doesn't know English very well yet, so I will translate for him."

"Oh, okay, no problem." She hesitated. "Is there anything you need to know before…?"

"We will see; if we need anything we will ask. First we need to establish that there is in fact paranormal activity here."

"All right, just come along then!"

Thomas found himself looking at Caroline as she led them into the shelter. Underneath her stained clothes she had a perfect hourglass figure: shapely hips, a slender waist, and a generous bosom. There was a skip in her step, and her breasts bounced a little when she walked… Watching her, he all of a sudden felt the urge to pull her against him and let his hands run over her curves, bite the soft skin of her neck, free those unruly auburn curls from her bun and bury his face in them… He startled at his own thoughts, shaking his head to remove the images before they could affect other parts of his anatomy. Where the hell did that come from?

"Here we are."

Barking, whining, and the scent of dog poop filled the air. Without him noticing, they had walked through a corridor full of small compartments with all kinds of dogs locked behind doors of translucent plastic, to stop before an empty one. The sight that awaited him there successfully removed all thoughts of Caroline's luscious hips and dancing curls from his mind…

_Oh. My. God. Or Gods, whatever. This is really bad._

How much worse than Moryo could it be? The answer was obviously "Much worse."

In a corner of the cage sat the scruffiest, most dishevelled being Thomas had ever laid eyes on, dead or alive. His clothes were ratty and torn, and from beneath a bush of matted hair in a shade that must have been blonde once, a pair of wild eyes glared at him. The only thing that showed this being was an elf were the pointed ears that stuck through the mess of knots and tangles...

Thomas shivered when he looked the ghost in the eyes… for there was nothing human in them. He knew it was a strange observation to make of a being that was never human to begin with, but he didn't know how else to put it. Maglor's brother had the gaze of an animal.

"So, do you think we have a ghost?"

Caroline's cheerful voice drew him from his thoughts. He nodded.

"Yes. You… have ghost."

Internally he cringed at his accent, but the girl didn't seem to mind.

"Oh, cool. What kind of ghost is it?"

Maglor interceded before he could stumble over another answer.

"We do not classify spirits, we only try to help them pass on. We do need a little privacy for that."

Despite Maglor's somewhat cold rebuke, Caroline wasn't offended in the least.

"Sure, I have stuff to do anyway. There might come people in here who want to adopt a dog though, if that's okay? I'll tell them not to disturb you."

"Of course. Thank you."

Thomas looked at the unkempt elf in the corner of the cell, unsure of how to approach this. Caranthir had been a little cracked, but at least he hadn't looked as if he shat where he sat… As if Celegorm had heard his thoughts the elf suddenly turned his head, producing a low, threatening sound.

_Was that… a growl?_

* * *

He couldn't feel his brother. Unlike Caranthir's presence, he couldn't sense Celegorm. His little brother had always been good at concealing himself, and perhaps the many dogs around them were causing interference… but still, it wasn't a good sign, and neither was the look of shock on Thomas' face when he saw the seemingly empty cage. Wavering between wanting and not wanting to know, Maglor nervously coughed.

"Do you think you can…?"

He left the sentence unfinished, and when Thomas deeply sighed, his fears were confirmed.

"I… I honestly don't know. It's kind of bad…" The boy hesitated, apparently unwilling to say more. "Does your brother have other names than Celegorm?"

Maglor nodded, trying to imagine what "kind of bad" entailed.

"Tyelkormo. Turkafinwë. Tyelko or Turko, when he was younger."

"Did he have a preference?"

"He liked his mothername best."

Thomas, who didn't know about the Noldorin naming system, questioningly raised an eyebrow.

"Which is?"

"Tyelkormo. Our fathernames all end in Finwë; it was to honour our grandfather, the founder of our family. Our mothernames were more personal."

"So your father- and mothernames are a bit like first and last names here?"

"A little, perhaps. Both could be used as a first name, depending on personal preference."

Thomas slowly nodded, and Maglor wondered why they were even having this conversation. He curiously looked at the boy.

"What will you do?"

Thomas shrugged.

"I'll just go in and improvise, I guess…"

"Do I need to leave?"

He shrugged again.

"Not really, but… could you not stand in front of the glass? I mean; this stuff is awkward enough without spectators."

"All right. I'll just wait at the end of the corridor. Call me if you need anything."

Maglor quickly turned away. It was tempting to stay, to watch and hope for a glimpse of his brother… but he wasn't sure he wanted to see what had become of Celegorm.

His third brother had always been strange, standing out with his blonde locks as much as with his behaviour… If he hadn't inherited their father's quick tongue and infamous temper, people could have doubted his parentage. Maglor sighed. The people knew nothing. Celegorm had inherited much more from their father than just his temper… Even in Valinor his spirit had been restless, bothered by dark dreams and insomnia, uncontrolled rage and unexplainable melancholia. It had been like a sickness at times, even though Maglor hadn't seen it as such.

_No one walks the same path in life_, their mother had said when he had asked her why Celegorm talked to squirrels and ran through the forest without shoes. _Maitimo doesn't take harp lessons either, does he? You are all different. _It had made sense to him at the time, and so he had never commented on Celegorm's lengthy disappearances into the woods, the giant hound that had used his favourite harp as a chew-toy, the bizarre rumours of what Oromë's followers got up to in the light of Telperion, or any of the other unusual things about his little brother. Over time, he had become so used to Celegorm's antics that he hadn't even thought them strange anymore…

But then the Darkening had happened. It had been the onslaught of madness… In the darkness insanity had worn a guise of reason and courage, and their plans, such folly in daylight, had seemed feasible under the cover of night. Maglor closed his eyes at the memory. They had all been mad, having lost their minds to the dark around them and the fire in their hearts… And Celegorm had been…

"AAAAAAAARRRRRGHHH!"

The scream broke Maglor with a shock from his gloomy thoughts, and immediately he ran back to the compartment where Thomas had been busy. Thomas lay in a strange position on the concrete floor: on his back, knees against his chest, holding one arm protectively over his face while trying to push something invisible away from him with the other.

Maglor immediately pulled Thomas out of the cage while the boy was violently kicking his unseen attacker. Only when the cage was closed again, he stopped screaming. Maglor grabbed him by the shoulders.

"What happened? Thomas, tell me what happened!"

The boy was pale, shaky, and apparently in pain, but that didn't stop him from being snarky. He glared at Maglor, uttering with clenched teeth,

"N-Next time I'm bringing the sword."

"What did he do?"

Thomas was clasping his arm, and only now the Noldo noticed there was blood seeping through the fabric of the sleeve. He pulled the boy's hand away, revealing the bloody imprint of a full set of teeth. His mouth fell open.

"Celegorm bít you?"

Thomas shakily nodded.

"T-That he d-did."

_Dear Valar._

* * *

"Wow. Just… wow." Caroline shook her head in disbelief as she handed Maglor the first aid kit. "Ghosts can bite?"

Thomas, who had recovered a bit from the shock, glared at Maglor.

"Yes, ghosts can bite, and hard at that."

The elf ignored him, disinfecting and bandaging the wound. Dispassionately, he remarked,

"You're lucky the wound is bleeding so much, it lowers the chance of infection."

Thomas could tell Maglor was shaken by the events, but he didn't feel like being considerate at the moment.

"Yeah right. Does your brother have rabies by any chance? I'd like to know before I'm foaming at the mouth."

Maglor glared back and suddenly tightened the bandage, making Thomas yelp.

"Hey! What was that for?"

With a deceptively even voice, the elf stated,

"My brother does not have rabies."

Thomas glared indignantly at him… but then his anger deflated. He shrugged.

"Ah well, if he thought I was your father I can't really blame him. If my dad had ever treated me like yours did… Hell, I would bite him too!"

They looked at Caroline, who was curiously following their Quenya conversation. Noticing their glances she remarked,

"I really didn't know ghosts could bite, or I would have given you a break stick or something…" She looked inquiringly at Maglor. "Is the ghost gone now?"

The tension seeped through in Maglor's voice when he sharply answered,

"No. He is not gone. We don't really know how to approach this one." He glared at her. "And it would be appreciated it if you could keep this incident private. We absolutely don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

Caroline nodded, a little unsettled by Maglor's icy demeanour.

"Sure, my lips are sealed, Mr Smith." She then shook her head again, whispering to herself, "Biting ghosts…"

Again, Thomas' eyes were drawn to her, appraisingly travelling over her figure. Something about Caroline Dubois was extremely attractive, causing his mind to cook up all kinds of enticing and embarrassing images of hands and other appendages roaming where they in this case most definitely shouldn't. It was more than a little frustrating…

_I come across a random female somewhat around my age, and suddenly my body decides it wants to mate with her. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

Living in a hospital must be really bad for his hormones. Maybe he was turning into one of those creepy perverts who salivated over anything remotely resembling a woman… Thomas tried to imagine Dr Beardsley naked, and thankfully shuddered in distaste. Good, there was still hope then.

Having that settled, he thought about the task at hand. Thomas really didn't feel like getting mauled by a crazy ghost, but he couldn't abandon the job either. He had to find a way to get rid of the spirit, if not for Maglor and his pantheon of meddlesome gods, then for the safety of the people who worked in the shelter. But how was he ever going to get Maglor's mordacious brother to the afterlife without sustaining more injury?

His mind spun over the options. Would he be able to muzzle a ghost? Probably not. Maybe he should ask the elf for protective measures; he wanted to bet he had a suit of armour somewhere. Or he could try to distract the spirit with a shiny toy or something? Thomas immediately discarded that thought. Shiny things should probably be kept far away from this one...

In the end, he just sat down outside the cage, warily eyeing Celegorm while Maglor nervously paced another part of the shelter. The spirit sat curled up in his corner, looking a bit out of it. Thomas wondered if any of his kicks had managed to hit target… He certainly hoped so. If ghosts were able to bite him, he should be able to kick them in the nuts too. For a while he just sat there, but eventually he took his sketchbook from his bag and started drawing to get rid of the stress he felt. In a few pencil strokes he had Celegorm's features on paper; intensely glaring eyes underneath shaggy long hair, sunken cheeks, a chiselled jawline… Thomas could tell that Celegorm had been a beautiful elf once. He was also a very grateful model; apart from the occasional snarl or flick of his ear the elf didn't move, and he also didn't request to see the drawing before it was finished, letting him work undisturbedly. The sketch became a detailed portrait, and soon more followed. Celegorm's cramped pose alone was already worth a whole anatomy study…

"Is that the ghost?"

He startled, finding Caroline standing behind him with two cups of coffee. He nodded, and she smiled warmly. Crouching down, she handed him a mug.

"I didn't know if you took sugar or milk or nothing at all, so I just brought everything. Take your pick." With her now free hand she reached into the pocket of her hoody and offered him a handful of plastic spoons and small packets of milk, sugar, and cookies. Thomas hadn't entirely understood what she had said, but the inviting gesture could not be misinterpreted. He carefully took a spoon, some sugar, and a cookie.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They looked at each other. For a moment, something awkward hung between them… and then, before he could stop himself, Thomas reached out with his hand, wiping some of the dirt from Caroline's cheek. Clumsily, he stated,

"You have… thing on your face."

His fingers rested just long enough on her face to feel her skin flush. A warm blush spread over her cheeks as she nervously smiled.

"Oh. Eh… I… I'm..."

He playfully raised an eyebrow at her.

"What?"

"I s-should go… "

Thomas, who suddenly felt extremely confident, patted the spot next to him.

"You can sit here? Take break?"

And, very much to his surprise, she sat down next to him.

"Okay."

_Smooth... I don't know what that was or where the hell it came from, but let's hope it's here to stay!_

They sat together, and Thomas drew. As he finished yet another drawing of Celegorm, Caroline remarked,

"Poor thing. He makes me think of a mistreated pet."

He questioningly looked at her.

"Mis-treated pet?"

"Yes, a pet that was treated very badly by its previous owners. We get them here a lot, unfortunately. Neglect, starvation, sometimes even actual torture… it's really sick what people dare to do to their dogs. Your drawing… it makes me think of that. He looks like he's in a lot of pain."

Thomas slowly nodded. As usual, he hadn't understood every word, but he got the gist of it. A badly treated animal… Yes, that was indeed a good description of Celegorm's current state. He wondered…

"How… How to help pet when is… mis-treated?"

"You need to win their trust. Mistreated pets can be dangerous, because they believe everyone is going to hurt them, and they attack because they are scared… However, if you show them that you aren't threatening, and manage to win their trust, they can be helped." She sighed. "Sadly, a small shelter like this doesn't have the resources to re-condition mistreated dogs, and they are often put down for being unsociable and aggressive. It always breaks my heart; if I had the money for it I would adopt them all in a heartbeat."

With anyone else it would have frustrated him to no end, having conversation while he didn't understand half of what was said and couldn't contribute more than stammered bits of broken English… but with Caroline, he didn't mind it so much for some reason. He liked that she didn't slow her speech or articulated extra well to accommodate him; it was refreshing to for once talk to someone who didn't make a big deal of his problem. Not to mention that what he understood of what she said really made sense. Trying to win Celegorm's trust by showing he wasn't threatening? Thomas thought he was already doing a pretty good job at that; he hardly made for a menacing sight while sitting in front of the cell with his sketchpad… He looked at the ghost and wondered what was going on in his head. Did he still think in words, or were his thoughts as animal as his behaviour suggested? Could he still understand language? Thomas felt a strange kinship with Celegorm at the thought that the spirit might not understand his own tongue anymore...

_What would I do, if I were in his place? If I were that scared, that lost? What would help me?_

Thomas thought deeply, and as his pencil once more sketched the elf's messy shock of tangled curls, he got an idea.

"Caroline… I have ask. Eh, question."

* * *

Maglor had paced through the shelter so much already that the dogs didn't even do the effort to bark anymore when he passed by. His thoughts were with Celegorm… The blonde had been a hasty riser indeed. First to swear, first to carry out their father's order in Losgar, first to call for battle against their own again after Alqualondë… He had been called both the fairest and the cruellest of Fëanor's children. But… he had also been his first little brother. Maglor sighed. He hadn't been too excited about being a big brother at the time… His mind had been with his music, and he had rarely made time for the elfling. Perhaps if Celegorm had had an interest in song it would have been different, but as it was he had often ignored the little one in favour of his compositions. And when they had grown older Celegorm had hardly ever been at their house, roaming the forest for a meal rather than coming home in time for dinner. They had never been close. Would things have been different if they had been, if he had known him better? Maglor immediately pushed the thought aside. Pondering over the "What If's" of his life had never amounted to much good. Right now, the only important thing was for Thomas to succeed in leading his little brother to the Halls, preferably while remaining in one piece…

* * *

The cage was open now, but Thomas hadn't changed position. He still sat in front of it with his sketchbook, only now without barrier to keep Celegorm from throwing himself at him.

_Look. Not threatening. I don't want to hurt you. Feel free to come closer._

He was nervous, but managed not to show it. If he had been a poker player, he would have been so good… He continued to draw, and slowly yet steadily, the ghost crept closer. Thomas didn't look up, but he could almost feel the spirit approach him, making his skin crawl with discomfort…

_Don't bite me don't bite me please don't bite me…_

Suddenly, his sketchbook was pulled out of his hands with surprising strength. Celegorm had taken hold of it, twitching fingers tracing the almost finished portrait Thomas had been working on. A soft, sad wail escaped him. Thomas nodded.

"Yes, that's you. Not exactly looking your best, huh?"

From under the heap of matted hair, he was met with a pair of frightened, confused eyes. Though still wild, he thought the ghost's gaze was already less animal than before… That was positive; perhaps his absurd plan would have a chance of success after all.

"You don't have to look like this, you know."

Thomas carefully reached behind him for the things he had asked Caroline, and put them in front of him, at a sufficient distance from his person.

"Do you know what these are for?"

The young woman had been a little surprised when she had understood what he wanted, but had obliged anyway, bringing him a selection of dog grooming tools. It would probably be more dignified to use combs and brushes for humans, but as those weren't available (and Celegorm's hair looked like it would need heavy machinery anyway) what he had would have to do. The spirit looked at the combs, then at Thomas, and then at the combs again. He was obviously weighing his options. Thomas shrugged.

"I know it's not ideal… but if you let me, I can probably make you look like less of a mess."

Probably. He had no experience giving makeovers to ghosts, so he had no idea if it was possible to change the way they looked in the first place… Whether he understood that or not, Celegorm still came closer again, abandoning the sketchbook in favour of the pinwire brush. He carefully touched it, cocking his head to the side as if trying to remember what the thing was for. Eventually he pushed it towards Thomas.

"I take it you approve?"

He didn't receive an answer, but the elf's helpless expression said all he needed to know.

"Well then. Let's do this. But no biting, all right?"

… …..

_This is the weirdest thing I have ever done in my entire life. Ever. If it gets any weirder than this, I quit. _

Thomas shook his head to himself while he carefully worked a matting comb through the thick tangles of Celegorm's mane. So far, the elf had been surprisingly docile, only whining softly when the comb pulled on a particularly big knot. Not for the first time, Thomas didn't quite know what to think of it all. He probably looked ridiculous, combing and brushing what was thin air for all onlookers... Good thing that Caroline had gone back to work, and that Maglor was… well, wherever he was, which wasn't here.

Celegorm had a lot of hair, and disentangling it was no small chore. Thomas tried not to think about how cold his ass was or how badly his legs were sleeping from sitting on the concrete floor, and gradually worked his way through the muddle of mats and snarls. Progress was made slowly, but it was there; there were fewer knots in the spirit's hair with every round of brushing, and the colour of it looked healthier too. When he was finally satisfied with his work, Thomas cheerfully remarked,

"That's much better, isn't it?"

The reaction was not what he had expected. Celegorm had been calm and even relaxed during the brushing, but now he tensed up again, trembling. Instinctively, Thomas pulled him closer, temporarily omitting all thoughts of bloody bite wounds. He softly stroked the spirit's hair.

"What is it, Tyelko? Can you tell me?"

He startled when Celegorm looked at him; the clouded, wild haze was gone from spirit's eyes, replaced by pure anguish. A broken sob escaped the elf while he violently shook in Thomas' arms.

"T-they… a-all… leave… m-me."

The words were choked out with great effort, as if the spirit had forgotten how to use his voice… Suddenly, Thomas was overwhelmed by a torrent of images.

… …...

_A teenaged boy sat under a tree, engrossed in a book, black hair falling in front of his face like a curtain. Celegorm slowly approached him, creeping through the foliage without making a single sound. When he was right behind the boy, he suddenly lifted his head from the bushes, hoping to surprise him._

"_Are you still busy?"_

_His intended victim didn't look up from his book, but a frown formed on his face._

"_Yes, Tyelko. I am still busy. Go away."_

"_But… you said you were almost done!"_

_Now the boy turned, glaring at him. _

"_I'm no closer to being done than I was five minutes ago, and I won't get any closer if you keep bothering me! Can't you just go do something instead of annoying me?"_

_(But… I wanted to do something _withyou_.)_

"_A-All right. I'm sorry…"_

_... . … . …_

"_She left, my lord."_

_His valet cringed a bit under his stare. _

"_Whereto?"_

"_We don't know. She travels at her own whim and never shares her plans with us."_

"_And she did not say when she expected to be back?"_

_The younger elf hesitated._

"_I… I am not sure she intended to come back this time, my lord."_

_(But I needed to talk to her! I needed to tell her I am sorry… I… I needed her to know!)_

_He shrugged._

"_All right, then I need not bother waiting for her. What else happened in my absence?"_

… _. … . …_

"_You have no honour."_

_He smirked at Finrod._

"_And you have too much of it, cousin. If you don't watch out, that might just kill you."_

_He expected to see the king's eyes flash with powerless indignation… but there was no ire in Finrod's gaze this time. Only pity. _

… _. … . …_

_The room was empty. _

_(We are the Dispossessed… but she was not a possession. She was light and life and love, and I could not lock her away nor set her in precious metal.)_

… _. … . …_

_After the anger and embarrassment had dissipated, he found himself tiredly eyeing the now empty spot next to his seat. He knew why Huan had chosen Luthien… he couldn't even blame him. He was cruel and honourless while she was kind and noble; it was hardly a choice at all, really._

_One time the great hound had honoured their friendship, returning to him when he could have stayed with her… but Celegorm knew with painful certainty that he wouldn't receive that gift a second time. _

_He was all alone now. _

… _. … . …_

_There was darkness, even when the sun was high in the sky. It was always dark. The shadow of the Oath was tall and black… He no longer remembered what it was like to live in the light. _

_(The darkness is like hunger.)_

_He looked over his troops with a sense of grim satisfaction. They would attack at the break of dawn. Their numbers were great and their weapons superior; Doriath would either bend or break under their strength. The Sindar would pay for their insolence…_

_(Look at us, hollow-eyed and famished... We are servants to starvation, parched enough for poison and blood to quench our thirst, starved enough to devour our own. All honour is lost to us.)_

… _. … . …_

_The floor was cold as ice, but the chill spread through his body like fire. It didn't hurt, not as he had thought it would. He had thought it would burn… _

_(Our souls are blackened by the shadow, twisted by the dark… cursed to dwell in the cold.)_

_Dior Eluchil's unseeing eyes stared at him, still as intense as they had been in life. Even in death, Luthien's son was beautiful... Celegorm looked into those dead orbs as darkness fell over the hall, and remembered the light of the Silmarils. _

_(It would have left us blistered and scorched… for we are shadow, and shadow cannot be in the light. We would have burned in it like the creatures of Morgoth burn in the sun.)_

_The cold froze his limbs, made his blood run thick and slow... and as death was upon him, he smirked._

_… …..._

When he returned to his senses, Thomas noted he had drawn Celegorm even closer, softly cradling him. The elf was still shivering, his voice full of despair.

"D-don't… l-leave…"

Thomas soothingly ran his fingers through the spirit's tresses.

"I won't leave. Sssh… I won't leave."

The visions had been warped and fragmented, and he hadn't nearly understood all of what he had seen… but the heart-wrenching sense of loneliness and rejection in them had hit him hard. Thomas didn't think anymore about how ridiculous he must look, or how weird it all was… he just wanted to make the being in his arms feel safe again.

For a quite some time he just held the spirit, calmly running his fingers through his hair or rubbing circles on his back… and eventually Celegorm's trembling ceased. He looked weary and spent, too exhausted even to move.

"T-Tired…"

His voice was a mere whisper.

"Then you should go to sleep."

"D-don't leave…"

"Ssssh…"

Thomas continued stroking Celegorm's hair, and noted to his satisfaction that the elf was half-asleep already, dazedly watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. He smiled.

"Sleep, Tyelko."

And as if that had been the last command needed, the spirit surrendered to sleep at last, going limp in Thomas' arms. One moment Thomas still felt him lie against him… and the next, he was gone.

_I hope that wherever he is now, he isn't alone anymore. _

* * *

Thomas was sitting in the cage, calmly rocking from side to side with his arms around something invisible. His expression was both confused and oddly solemn, reminding Maglor of the way he had seen people look when struck by foresight...

Thomas didn't take notice of him, so he remained silent as to not disturb what the boy was doing. Instead, Maglor quietly observed him, eyes travelling over the empty coffee mug, discarded sketchpad, and strewn about hairbrushes in the cell. When he took a better look at the sketchpad, his heart clenched. All of Thomas' drawings were cruel in their accuracy, unremitting and without euphemism… but this one was like a knife in his chest. He hardly recognized the crumpled being depicted as his brother…

Maglor didn't see anything of his brother, but he still felt it when Celegorm's fëa left. It was like something tightly wound up suddenly relaxing, a nervous tension leaving the air... it should have been relieving, but for some reason it wasn't. Thomas still had that strangely grave look in his eyes when he came out of the cell. It made him look old, far older than his 18 years... Maglor felt a shiver run down his back at the sight of it. It was as if in a couple hours Thomas had aged a thousand years… and the resemblance was simply frightening.

"Thomas, are you all right?"

"Yes… yes, I am. I guess."

He sounded worryingly absent…

"Are you sure?"

"Mhmm."

Only when they reached the reception desk, Thomas broke from his odd state.

"Caroline!"

The sense of ancientness fell off him along with his alarming resemblance to Fëanor… and Maglor started to feel concerned for a whole other reason. Watching Thomas' somewhat awkward interactions with the young shelter worker was like looking at a piece of fireworks ready to explode; he could almost see the sparks fly. What did the boy think he was doing? Back in the car, the Noldo noticed Thomas was holding a piece of paper. He suspiciously eyed it.

"What is that?"

Thomas grinned at him.

"Her telephone number."

"What do you need that for?"

Thomas sarcastically raised an eyebrow.

"What do you think?"

Maglor sighed.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

The boy shrugged, his grin not fading the least.

"I think it's an excellent idea." He turned to Maglor. "You know, I think I'm going to make her something."

"_Make_ her something?"

"A drawing, I mean, or a painting. It's not like I can make much else. What do you think she would like?"

If he hadn't needed to keep his eyes on the road, he would have banged his head on the steering wheel.

_Why, Valar? Why?_

**(Author's Apologies)**

**A new chapter! And yes, I have been cruel to poor Celegorm. I think the "animal" regression he went through was his mind's way to cope with the pain and confusion… **

**Thomas playing hairdresser here is less straightforward than it may seem. The way a spirit looks is a reflection of what state their mind and fëa is in; Celegorm's messed up look reflected the state of his mind. Technically it wasn't the brushing that made his hair look better, but the steady, calm and caring attention given to him. Without knowing, Thomas created a safe space for Celegorm, where he could return from the regression and face his pain. (so yeah, I really thought this through!)**

**I tried my best to write Celegorm's memories and inner voice as distinctly different from Caranthir, and also reflective of his increasing insanity under the Oath. I have no idea if I succeeded… (so feedback would be awesome!) **

**Also, Thomas doesn't understand most of the memories, as he has no context whatsoever for most of them. I hope you all understand them though...**

**(Oh, and because I can already see the question come up: NO, Thomas will not turn into a zombie because Celegorm bit him. The reason Celegorm was able to bite him in the first place has to do with the strange "existing on two different planes" thing that was explained in the first chapter. Thomas is tangible to the dead as well as the living.)**

**For those of you who don't know this: a "break stick" is a special plastic stick used to wring open the jaws of a dog when he bites someone. People who own dogs with strong jaws (b.e. rotties, akitas, pitbulls, ...) generally carry a break stick with them when they walk their pets, just to be safe. As for the grooming tools, a matting comb is a special comb with long metal pins, used to cut through mats and tangles in fur. A pinwire brush is exactly what it sounds like, it's usually used on long-haired dogs. **

**I wonder what you thought of this. Did I write Celegorm convincingly? (it's hard to write a character who hardly says anything…) What are your thoughts about Caroline? Do you have any questions about this chapter? Thoughts about what is still to come? Reviews are love! ^^ **

_**To Elrond's Circlet: Thank you for the lovely review! Your support is greatly appreciated, and so are your grammar tips. I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story! **_


	5. Ghosts Of The Past

He hadn't told Maglor much about his encounter with Celegorm, if only because he had trouble making sense of it all for himself. The memory –because that was what he supposed it was, a memory- of Caranthir's death had startled him, but the sequence of strange, distorted images and frenzied thoughts the blonde spirit had shared with him had been a whole other level of disturbing. Thomas sullenly walked through the clinic's corridors, lost in thought. Ever since the encounter with Celegorm, he felt off.

He couldn't tell Maglor about it. How rejected and abandoned his brother had felt, how that stupid Oath had eaten away at his sanity, how much pain his soul had been in in the end… he couldn't tell him. It felt wrong to share something like that; it was too personal, too intimate. And yet, Thomas wished he could speak about it. Maybe this was how real therapists felt after seeing a difficult patient, he mused. They couldn't talk about what they heard either, doctor-patient confidentiality and all that, but surely they must feel troubled by it as well, some times?

_There's just no way to help trouble out of the world, is there? You can only pass the burden to someone else._

The thought alone was tiring. Thomas hoped not all Maglor's brothers would be as broken as Celegorm; partly because he didn't wish such a condition on anyone, but mostly because he didn't think he could take another encounter with so damaged a mind. He didn't know how the memory-sharing worked, or even why it happened, but there was no denying that it was taxing… While lost in thought, he had wandered out of the clinic, into the therapy garden.

The therapy garden offered a wide variety of plants and trees, making sure there was always something in bloom no matter the season. There were winding (but wheelchair-friendly) paths, big lawns for group therapy and picnics, and small corners that felt secluded but could be easily overseen from the higher floors of the clinic. Actually it wasn't half bad for a hospital garden. Thomas had never been a big fan of it though. For some reason, the doctors and therapists of the revalidation centre thought gardens were beneficial to the recovery of their patients, so they greatly "encouraged" people to spend time in them. This had included him, and… well, he had never taken kindly to coercion. As soon as he had realized they wanted him to enjoy the garden, he had in a fit of defiance decided to never go there if he could avoid it. Now he had accidentally walked into it however, Thomas found himself grudgingly appreciating his surroundings. Spring had begun, and the plants that had been brown and seemingly dead all winter were now decked in a wealth of fresh green. A large tulip tree in full bloom hung over a forgotten park bench, soft pink petals floating down when a breeze rustled the branches. He didn't want to admit it… but it was beautiful.

Standing amidst the greenery, Thomas felt a bit of the weight that had pressed on him lift, much like how Maglor's strange house had calmed his anger. The relief was almost physical… One of the benches close to the door was occupied by an empty-eyed woman in pyjamas, and in the distance he could see patients gathering on the lawn for what was probably a yoga or aerobics class, but when he closed his eyes he could pretend he was all alone. He sat down under the tulip tree, and as he listened to the wind in the leaves a content sigh escaped him. Maybe those doctors were on to something after all…

When he opened his eyes again and watched the petals drop, his hands suddenly itched to draw. Not out of stress or anger, but because he wanted to create something. Something beautiful. It was an oddly reassuring feeling…

Thomas remembered his idea to make something for Caroline. Her phone number still sat in his pocket, but although he had read it so often already that he knew it by heart, he hadn't called her yet. There were multiple reasons for that, and they were all equally frustrating. Not only was his floor's patient telephone located in plain sight of the nurse's station, he also feared that making conversation through the phone was beyond his skill in English, as he relied heavily on facial expressions and body language to understand people. And what would he say to her anyway? "Hey, remember me? The language-impaired kid who got bitten by a ghost at the dog shelter? Want to come over for a cup of coffee? Just so you know, I live in a hospital, and everyone here thinks I'm a brain-damaged idiot." Yeah, that would go over well…

It was foolishness to think anything could come from it, and he should probably just forget about her… but Thomas found that he couldn't. It had been too long since he had had any hope of a real connection with someone who was both alive and not Maglor. And Caroline… From the moment she had caught his eye he had been drawn to her. She had been so vibrant, so full of life, so… so warm. He wistfully smiled at the memory. If being with the dead was like standing in the cold without a coat, being with her had been like warming himself by a fire…

Maybe… maybe if he made her something really impressive, she would take him, brain damage and all? Surely he could work something out to solve the telephone problem…

* * *

"What do you need my phone for?"

Maglor frowned at Thomas, who answered with a glare.

"I'm going to call Caroline."

Right. Of course. Maglor had hoped that after a week, Thomas would have forgotten about the young shelter worker, but of course the Valar didn't grant him such reprieve. The Noldo didn't plan to let this go any further though. Derisively he remarked,

"Call her to do what? Invite her here? That will make a good impression…"

He knew it was a low blow, and he regretted it almost the moment it left his mouth. Thomas' grey eyes gained an unsettling intensity, and while his voice remained calm, the elf could feel the rage simmering in it.

"Oh, so now I should be ashamed of where and how I live? Wasn't it you who said there was nothing humiliating about my situation?"

_Oh-oh._

"Thomas, you know what I mean. I only want to spare you the disappointment."

"Wrong."

Maglor involuntarily shuddered when he met the young man's hard gaze.

"You don't want to spare me anything. You are scared. Scared that I'll get distracted and mess up this divine mission thing, or betray your little pointy-eared secret to someone if given the chance. As long as you are the only person I can speak to, the only person who takes me seriously… you can control me." His lips curled in a mocking smile. "Or so you think. Have you ever considered things from my side?"

Maglor opened his mouth to interject, but Thomas didn't even let him start.

"What is there for me in life, beyond annoying the nurses and playing therapist to ghosts? I mean, honestly. You don't have an endless amount of brothers; the day will come that we've given all of them a proper send-off. And then what's next? I'm quite certain that you won't stick around just to keep me company. I'll be all alone again, here in Retardville! And what prospects will I have? I'm a brain-damaged adolescent who never even made it out of high school, I basically live in a loony bin, I have no friends, no family, no mentionable skills, and the average illegal immigrant speaks better English. That sums it up quite nicely, don't you think?" Thomas grinned mirthlessly. "I might as well throw myself on your father's pretty blade when we're done with this."

There was power in the young man's words, power that Maglor hadn't been prepared to face in the least. He had been caught without warning, and now he could almost feel the words ensnare him… All he could do was brace himself. Meanwhile, Thomas was still talking, unaware of –or ignoring- the turmoil he caused in the elf. He made a seemingly appeasing gesture.

"Now look at it like this. If there is even the smallest chance that Caroline would accept me, ghost hunting and broken English included, don't you think I should grab it? The disappointment of rejection can never be worse than the life that's waiting for me if I don't even try. And it's in your advantage too to have me motivated and hopeful; I'll be more efficient, and probably also make for better company –a not insignificant detail I'd reckon, given that we're stuck with each other until this is over with."

Thomas' eyes were stone cold when he calmly ended his discourse.

"So, will you let me use your phone, or do I need to procure one some other way?"

Knowing when to admit defeat, Maglor reached into his coat pocket and handed Thomas his cell phone. The boy's look chilled him to the bone... He knew that in time he would think back on this and find all kinds of holes in the reasoning… but right now, he couldn't bring himself to think on it. His whole mind was in a state of shock, trying to shake of the effects of that unexpected verbal pounding.

_Ai Valar… Such power in the hands of a barely overage mortal… Do they even know what they've done?_

* * *

Thomas was honestly surprised that he had managed to talk Maglor out of his phone. He hadn't counted on it much; in fact he had already thought of a backup plan that would require him to nick a fellow patient's cell phone. Yet when the elf had stood in front of him, all his frustrations and arguments had suddenly fallen together in his head like random lines forming a pattern, and he had known what to say. It was like drawing, but with words, with his voice instead of a pencil. He sketched his speech, picking words like he usually picked colours, using intonation like shading and volume like the thickness of a line… It was a very peculiar experience, but exciting all the same. Thomas remembered as a kid how he had discovered pencils after having only thick crayons to draw with; it was a bit like that. This was a new material, and he would need lots of practice before it would be as comfortable to him as pen and paper… but the possibilities were near endless. He shook his head to himself.

_Damn… If only I had known this back in high school; I would have so ruled the debate club._

Thomas looked at the phone in his hands, and then at Maglor, whose face was drained of colour. Not for the first time, he wondered how he had managed to shock a millennia old being. Was it him, or was Maglor just an easily unnerved specimen? The elf really looked as if he could use a seat and a stiff drink… He wondered if he should apologize. No, first make the call. Thomas pushed away an unpleasant sense of guilt at being the cause of the Noldo's distress, and dialled Caroline's number. It wasn't long before she picked up.

"Caroline Dubois speaking, who is this?"

"Eh… Caroline, it is me, Thomas."

He winced at the halting manner the words came out, and for a moment he feared that Maglor had been right and that she wanted nothing to do with him, or worse, that she didn't even remember who he was. But then she answered, and he could clearly hear the eagerness in her voice.

"Hi! Good to hear from you! I had almost given up hope on you calling me…"

"I… not have phone, before."

"Ah, okay. So, is this your number now?"

"Is Maka's phone."

"You mean your grumpy translator?"

Thomas couldn't help but chuckle.

"Yes, him."

He heard her giggle nervously.

"So… you called me."

"Yes. I… eh…" Thomas took a deep breath, and blurted out the phrase he had been practicing in his head for the better part of the day. "Would you like to come over for coffee some time?"

It was silent for a moment.

_Yeah, here it comes. The refusal. Any time now…_

"I would love to, but I… I actually wanted to ask you to come over to me, this Friday evening. It's my aunt's birthday, and there's this big garden party at my dad's house, and there will be cake and booze and music… It's always great fun." She started stuttering. "I… I understand if you don't want to, I mean, it's weird, you don't know me at all, and I'm inviting you to meet my family, you must think I'm totally crazy, I…"

She was rambling, and her accent had gotten worse, and Thomas thought it was the most adorable thing he had ever heard. He could almost see the blush that must have risen to her cheeks by now…

"I would love to come."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really."

"Great! Feel free to bring your translator, there'll be more than enough food. I'll give you the address, do you have something to write?"

When Thomas handed the phone back to Maglor a little later, he felt like doing a victory dance.

"We have a date!"

The elf disbelievingly looked at him.

"We?"

* * *

Although there were illustrious examples of it among the elves, speaking with words of power wasn't a purely Eldarin talent. Maglor had met mortal men and women who could weave such power in their speech that it would move nations, for good or evil. It had never ceased to unsettle him, mostly because he knew first hand what the consequences of such mighty words could be. Compared to that, Thomas' little display of force was almost laughable… But Maglor didn't laugh. It had perhaps been unpolished and a bit haphazard, but it had been strong, strong enough to hit him hard and personal.

For a moment he had been back in Alqualondë, on the red-stained deck of one of the swan-ships, soaked in seawater that felt and smelled like blood. In his mind he had been covered with it, thick red liquid trickling from his clothes and hair as it had done from his sword. Everything had been red and dripping, glistening with freshly spilled blood… and he had just stood there, unable to move away, paralyzed by the horror of what they had done. _What he had done._ It was all he remembered of their crossing. He had some vague memories of Maedhros holding him close, holding his hair as he retched in a chamber pot, but everything else was gone. As far as his mind was concerned, there had been nothing but blood.

The memory had lasted but a moment, but it had been enough. Maglor was trembling, and his entire being wanted nothing more than to run out of the room and never come back. If this was only an uncoordinated attempt at words of power, he didn't want to know what Thomas might be able to do with enough practice and training…

He still hadn't completely recovered when the boy finished his telephone conversation. Apparently it had been successful, for he wore a big triumphant grin on his face.

"We have a date!"

Wait… We? Was he supposed to come along? Play chaperone?

"Yeah, you're invited too. It's a party."

_Great. Just, great._

* * *

Ever since the phone-incident, things had been a little chilly between him and Maglor. Thomas could only conclude that he must have really insulted the elf, and that an apology was in order. The problem was, he didn't know what he should be apologizing for. Yeah, he had been harsh and blunt, but he usually was, and the elf had never taken this bad to it before. Could he just say, "I'm sorry for insulting you" when he didn't even know what the insult had been?

Maglor was giving him the quasi-silent-treatment, meaning that he said nothing unless he had no other choice. It was extremely frustrating. As they drove to Caroline's party, Thomas looked forward to being around people who actually talked; even not understanding a thing would be better than Maglor's increasingly awkward silence. He didn't know what to make of the elf's behaviour and it was getting on his nerves.

_Why can't he just tell me what's up, yell at me, maybe punch me, and then be done with it? Elves are so confusing. Am I supposed to just guess at what's bothering him? _

Ah, blast it. Maybe he was just hopelessly inept at dealing with living people.

… … …

When they arrived at the address, Thomas was pulled from his thoughts by the sight of the house. Caroline's father lived in a large limestone country house, with an impressive driveway and a well kept front yard. It wasn't an estate, but it was still grander than he had expected… As they walked to the front door, Thomas wished he had even a fraction of Maglor's poise. They were similarly dressed in black trousers and monochromatic shirts –red for him, black for the elf- but the difference couldn't be greater. The Noldo looked effortlessly dashing, and his face didn't betray the least bit of tension. He, on the other hand, probably looked like a bumbling idiot.

_But hey, what's new, right?_

Immediately when he rung the bell, aggressive barking sounded from behind the door, until a familiar voice commanded,

"Cain, David, STAY!"

Immediately the barking stopped, and the front door opened to show a smiling Caroline, accompanied by two big black Dobermans. Thomas' breath stuck in his throat, and not because the growling dogs were rather menacing. Caroline was beautiful. Her auburn tresses fell freely over her shoulders, and a forest-green wrap dress made her elegant curves stand out. It was a far call from the dirty work clothes she had worn in the shelter, and Thomas feared his mouth was hanging open. Her décolleté alone made the blood fall from his brain to less rational parts of his anatomy… Her smile widened when she recognized them.

"You came!"

He smiled a little awkwardly.

"Said I would, no?"

She laughed nervously.

"True that… Now come on in! And don't be scared of the dogs, they're all bark and no bite, the sweethearts." She shooed the large beasts back into the house to let him and Maglor enter, and then led them to the party. The party was in full swing already, and everywhere people were happily chatting, laughing, drinking, and dancing to the tunes of a live band. There was a buffet with food and drinks, and the whole garden had been decorated with ribbons and coloured fairy lights. The merriment drew a smile on Thomas' face… the same could not be said for Maglor, who looked if possible even stonier than before.

"Can I get you something? The buffet is open, but if you want a cocktail or something…?

"Thank you, but I don't need anything." Maglor smiled. "And please, don't feel obliged to stay with me; I'm sure you and Thomas have more interesting things to do than keeping me company. I'll be fine on my own."

His tone was light and amiable, but Thomas could tell it wasn't genuine. Caroline seemed to feel it as well, as she hesitated.

"Are you sure? I could introduce you to some people if you like?"

"That will not be necessary."

The dismissal in his voice was unmistakable, and the girl nodded a little awkwardly.

"All right then! Thomas, would you like a drink?"

"Sure."

"Okay, this way!"

* * *

Maglor had watched Thomas and Caroline disappear between the other people in search of food and drinks, and a little later he spotted them on the dance floor, laughing and swaying to the music. He observed with growing unease how Thomas' hand lay a little too low on Caroline's back for decency, how she subtly pressed herself a little closer to him than required, how their eyes remained locked throughout every move… The elf felt his cheeks heat up. The two youngsters obviously couldn't wait to jump each other's bones, and the only thing he could think about was how much Thomas resembled his father. It was… well, rather awkward.

Wanting to look at something less mortifying, his eyes turned to the musicians on the makeshift stage. They weren't without merit for such young mortals, and if their cheerful Celtic tunes hadn't reminded him so much of the past, he would probably have enjoyed their performance more. As it was however, the music and revelry only made his melancholia worse. Ever since Thomas' unexpected speech, he had been plagued by thoughts and memories of a past that he had believed himself done with, and he didn't manage to push them back where they belonged.

_I may be done with the past, but the past is obviously not done with me…_

He would probably have continued to wallow in his own misery for a little longer, if one of the musicians hadn't caught his eye. He could have mistaken her for an elf. She was tall and willowy, with long ebony hair and features as if carved from marble. Her instrument was a transverse flute, and she played it without the slightest effort or hesitation. Maglor couldn't believe his eyes. Right when he thought things couldn't get more awkward...

_So this is what my uncle would look like as a woman. Valar know why I had to see this… _

He continued to stare at the woman who bore such ridiculous resemblance to Fingolfin, until a heavily accented voice resounded next to him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with long strawberry-blonde hair and a gauzy white floor-length dress. She held a cigarette in one hand and a glass of liquor in the other, and gave him a lopsided smile. Maglor raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"Amandine Dubois. This is my party. Do I know you?"

"Eh… I'm afraid not. My name is Maka Smith, your niece invited me."

"Ah, then you must be the grouchy translator she told me about. That explains it. You're not enjoying yourself much, are you?"

Maglor was a little taken aback by the woman's directness.

"Well…"

"No worries dear, I'm not insulted. My parties aren't everyone's piece of cake. Is it the music? You were giving my daughter-in-law quite the glare there…"

He shook his head.

"Oh no, it's not your party, or the music, I'm simply not in the best of moods." He looked curiously at her. "The flutist is your daughter-in-law?"

"Ah yes. It's quite the story. See the singer of the band? That's my son Christophe. One day he came home with this gorgeous girl on his arm, and I still remember how he said, "Mother, this is Thelma, and I'm going to marry her." Amandine grinned. "And what do you say in the face of such determination, right?" She shook her head and chuckled. "All things considered I can't complain; she's a good girl. Bit impulsive maybe, but a good girl."

"She's very talented."

Amandine kicked out her cigarette stub.

"That she is."

The conversation fell silent, but Maglor found he didn't mind the presence of Amandine too much. The whole situation had gained a surreal hue, and as twilight fell over the garden, the elf wondered if perhaps this was all a strange dream from Irmo.

_Ah, if only…_

When he looked again at Thomas and Caroline, the woman followed his gaze.

"They're a nice pair, my niece and your brother."

"My brother?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, is he your cousin then? Or your nephew?"

More than a bit unsettled, Maglor shook his head.

"We… we are not related."

Amandine appeared to be honestly surprised.

"Really? I could have sworn you two had some sort of family bond. He looks quite a bit like you."

"Maybe it's the light. People all look alike at dusk."

"Yes, maybe…"

She didn't seem convinced, and Maglor was starting to feel really uncomfortable.

"Now you mention it, you do look a bit like Thelma too. Wouldn't it be funny if you two were distant relatives?"

Maglor clenched his teeth.

_The height of hilarity, really._

* * *

Thomas felt a bit light-headed, and it wasn't –just– because of the excellent cocktails Caroline had mixed for them. The atmosphere of the party was intoxicating; it felt a bit as if he had stepped into a different world from the moment he had entered the garden. Conversation was light and easy despite the language barrier, and time passed almost unnoticed as they talked and danced. Thomas would have been perfectly content to do nothing but that for the rest of the night… But then the musicians took a break, and Caroline insisted he met her cousins.

Christophe Dubois was a jovial guy in his late twenties, with sandy blonde hair and a small beard. He asked if they had liked the music, complimented their avid dancing, and then wandered off to the drinks table. Despite the short interaction, he made a sympathetic impression. His wife Thelma on the other hand… now that was another story. If Thomas would have to make a collection of unpleasant glares and stares he had received over the years, the one Thelma Dubois-Saroyan was giving him now would get a place of honour, right next to Maglor's "I Greatly Disapprove Of This" expression and the frighteningly black eyes of Namo. He wondered what he could have done to deserve such contempt… he hadn't even opened his mouth!

_Apparently my presence alone makes people give me the stink eye. Joy. _

Thelma was a tall, slender woman with raven hair, pale skin, and sharp yet attractive features. Thomas couldn't help but think she looked a bit like Maglor. With only the scant illumination of the party lights it was difficult to say though, so he discarded the thought. It was probably just the "generic pretty" thing that reminded him of the elf.

"So you are the medium? Caroline has told me all about you."

Her voice was pleasant enough, but her eyes held a warning that Thomas didn't like one bit.

"I hope good things?"

She smiled coldly.

"Quite interesting things, actually. I can't say I know a lot about ghosts and their habits; I never knew they had affinity for dog shelters…"

"Ghosts come all places."

Thomas inwardly cursed at his lacking language skills. In Quenya he would bore her into the ground in no time, but with his limited knowledge of English there wasn't much he could do to retort against the woman's covered barbs.

With a grin, Thelma turned to Caroline.

"Caro, would you mind if I borrow your friend for a dance? I haven't been on the floor all night, and I doubt there'll be much dancing once Chris is back with the drinks. You know how I get once I have a glass in my hand."

"Sure, go ahead!"

Caroline was wholly unaware of her cousin's subtle show of antipathy. Thomas didn't really want to draw attention to it either, so he followed the tall woman to the dance floor, rueing the existence of stereo installations…

* * *

Maglor sat on the grass next to Amandine, smoking a blunt the woman had kept somewhere in the folds of her gauzy dress. It didn't affect him as much as it would a mortal, but it put a bit of a hazy layer over his memories, something he could definitely appreciate. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"So your son really married two months after meeting his wife?"

"Uh-huh. He met her on a Halloween party. He had only just arrived, when a fight broke out in the front yard. Two girls rolling in the mud, screaming, scratching, hair-pulling, the whole package. They kept fighting until someone put the hose on them…" Amandine giggled. "One of them was a real mess; dislocated shoulder, bruised ribs, black eye, scratches all over… so my boy volunteered to drive her to the hospital."

"And that was Thelma?"

She grinned and nodded.

"That was Thelma." She took the blunt back from Maglor and inhaled deeply. "Two months later, they stood in my kitchen with a wedding announcement."

"That's… fast."

"Mhmm. As I said, she's an impulsive one." Amandine eyed the dancers. "Speaking of her… she's dancing with your friend now."

Maglor looked, and immediately wished he hadn't done so. In the middle of the floor stood Thomas and Thelma, engaged in something between an elaborate wrestling match and a staring contest. Closing his eyes, he suppressed a groan. What in Eru's name were the Valar doing?

_Well, at least no swords are involved. Let's be grateful for the little things._

* * *

"You know, Caroline doesn't easily bring someone here. We never even got to meet her last boyfriend."

Thelma's tone was conversational, but the undertone was unmistakable. Thomas defiantly raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"She likes you. A lot."

The woman's lips remained stuck in a smile, but her look darkened.

"I don't know what you did or told her, but let me tell you this. I don't believe in paranormal mumbo jumbo. I don't believe you can talk to ghosts or spirits or whatever you call it. You may have wooed my cousin with your act, but I don't fall for it."

She bent a little closer to him, and he felt her hot breath in his neck when she whispered,

"I don't trust you, Thomas Ashworth. Caro and I may not be truly related, but she is like a sister to me. If you dare to hurt her, you better pray that death finds you before I do."

Thomas swallowed thickly.

_Well, that escalated quickly._

Thankfully, the song ended then and Thelma let go of him. Unfortunately, the woman hadn't played all her cards yet. Christophe had just gotten beer for all of them when she casually remarked,

"Chris, does your mother still have that old Ouija board?"

The man laughed.

"Why, want to play?"

Thelma shrugged and smirked at Thomas.

"We do have a real medium in our midst now…"

It wasn't hard to guess her motives; she obviously wanted to expose him as an imposter. Telling her that –as far as he knew- spirits didn't appear on command would only convince her of his falsehood even more…

"Sounds fun!"

And apparently Caroline thought the Ouija board was a good idea too. Great.

Christophe grinned at him.

"So, what do you think? Feel like bringing us in contact with the nether world?"

_The gods hate me. It must be. They really, really hate me. _

Thomas wanted to bash his head against a wall. Faced with Caroline's expectant look however, he just nodded.

"I… I can try."

… … …

A little later, they had settled down on the floor of Mr Dubois' small library, the wooden board between them. Thelma had lit a bunch of white candles, made a show of saying a prayer and calling for spirits, and now they were moving the planchette over the board in slow circles, waiting for something to happen. And surprise, surprise… nothing happened. Much to Thomas' ire, Thelma looked extremely satisfied. Her voice was obviously mocking when she called out,

"So, there is no one, no one at all who wants to talk to us?"

When again nothing notable happened, Christophe shrugged and took his finger from the planchette. He grabbed his drink and got up.

"The ghosts have better things to do, it seems." He sent Thomas an apologizing grin. "Maybe there's a party on the nether side too. I'm going back outside, see you guys later. Tell me if something cool happened!"

When the door closed behind him, Thelma triumphantly looked at Thomas. She sarcastically remarked,

"And you really earn yourself a living with this?"

He wanted to say something in defence, but Caroline was faster. She frowned at her cousin.

"Oh come on Thel, don't be like that! An Ouija board is just a game, that's not what being a medium is about! You shouldn't make fun of something you don't understand."

"Caro, you know I don't believe in…"

Before she could start a preach on how spirits didn't exist, Caroline interrupted her, breathlessly. She was staring wide-eyed at the game.

"Thel… T-The board. Look."

When Thelma followed her gaze, her mouth fell open. The planchette, abandoned in the middle of board, was moving. By itself.

"Oh my god… I… I have to get…"

She moved to get up, but when she did so, the planchette stopped. Only when she sat down again, it started moving over the alphabet once more, occasionally stopping on a letter. Caroline started spelling out what letters it came upon.

"A… I… Y… A…"

Thomas couldn't move. All the annoyance and embarrassment he had felt before had been replaced with a sense of dread.

"F… E… A… N…"

He closed his eyes. Why here? Why now?

"A… R… O…"

The room had grown icy cold, as if all the warmth had been sucked from it. They were all struck silent, eyeing the now motionless planchette.

"Hello, Fëanáro."

It sounded female, cold and resonant like breaking glass… When Thomas looked up, he couldn't help but gasp. Across him sat the most frightening spirit he had ever seen. An elven woman in a white fur cloak had taken up Christophe's place. Her skin was an unnatural, sickly shade of white, and her eyes had a milky sheen over them, like the eyes of a corpse. Dull blonde tresses framed a gaunt face, and thin blue lips curled in a mockery of a smile when Thomas' eyes widened. He felt bile rise in his throat. Something about her was so revolting it made his stomach turn.

"How ironic, that it is you they sent… Of all people…"

The sound of her voice was like nails over chalkboard, and Thomas trembled.

"Who… who are you?"

A hissing laugh escaped her.

"You don't recognize me? Tssss…"

"What do you want from me?"

She didn't answer his question. With a bony, frozen hand she caressed Thelma's arm, making the motionless girl shiver in fear and cold.

"Can I not visit my last descendant? I warned her for you, you know…"

That at least explained Thelma's uncalled-for dislike of him… Thomas' mind was spinning. He remembered what Maglor had said about spirits turning evil, and this one definitely didn't look benevolent. With a croaked voice he whispered,

"Don't harm them."

"Harm them? No… That is what you do. I would never have harmed anyone if not for you." There was no expression in those glazed, dead eyes, but Thomas felt as if she stared right into his soul. "Did you know… that when you get cold enough… it feels as if you're burning?"

The air in the room was so icy he almost couldn't breathe.

"It can get very cold, Fëanáro… So cold that every gasp and pant sets your lungs aflame… that every move feels like burning needles being stuck in your body… so terribly cold that the tears freeze on your face when you cry in agony…" Her grimace-like smile widened when she advanced on him, bending over the board until her bloodless face was close to his. "Are you scared yet, fiery one?"

Thomas had never been so scared in his entire life. He choked out,

"Please don't do this…"

The spirit pulled back a little.

"You think I want to kill you?"

He hesitated.

"You… you don't?"

"My kinslaying days are long behind me, Fëanáro…"

Despite her expressionless, frozen eyes, Thomas felt that she spoke the truth; she did not plan to kill him. He rubbed his numb hands over each other in an attempt to make them feel warm again, but to no avail. The cold had seeped into his bones, it seemed…

"Then why are you here?"

Something in the face of the corpse-like elf softened, making her seem less repulsive somehow. There was longing in her voice.

"He begged me to stay with him... So stay I did. I stayed with him until he died, and ever since I have watched over my descendants."

Compared to Celegorm and Caranthir, this frozen elf was extremely coherent and aware of her surroundings… Thomas didn't understand it. He couldn't match what she said with the things he already knew about spirits, namely that they had less and less grip on the living world as more time passed. How did she know whom her descendants were, when Caranthir hadn't even noticed his own brother standing in the same room?

"How… how a-are you not…?"

He didn't finish, but the ghost guessed his question anyway, sending shivers down his spine as she laughed hissingly.

"Ah, wouldn't you like to know?" Her face contorted in a grotesque grin. "Such disdain you showed for the teachings of the Vanyar… You discarded our knowledge of the unseen in favour of that what you could touch and hold, the works of your hands… Hah!" The spirit laughed derisively. "And so much joy those have brought you, no?"

She shook her head.

"You always needed to grab and own things, even that which was intangible and immaterial… Our lessons would have been lost on you."

"W-What do you want from me?"

For a moment, Thomas thought he saw a spark of life in her vacant eyes.

"I should not want a thing from you… But I do."

He felt himself go numb in her proximity, as if all the warmth was being drained from him… She bent closer to him, and her face was but centimetres from his when she continued,

"However, I am not like you, I don't take without giving back… So let this be my gift to you, Fëanáro. Let me buy you some time..." Thomas couldn't back away when she pressed frozen lips on his. A biting chill spread to his body like wildfire, and as everything around him slid out of focus, he clearly heard her voice in his mind.

_You fan the flames of your ow pyre… but frozen kindling doesn't burn, Fëanáro. One day you will thank me. _

A moment later his mind gave in to the cold, and everything went black.

**(Author's Apologies)**

**OMG! Could that be a cliffhanger? I think it's the first time I do this in this story… xD This chapter took me SO long…**

**Before I start my list of clarifications, I want to point out that the amazing Fish In Fridge is translating this story into Chinese! If you're interested, find it at: tieba . baidu p / 2969594117**

**Now, there are a number of important things in this chapter that require some explanation, beginning with:**

**- _Thomas' sudden speech talent._ **

**As explained in the story, "speaking with words of power" isn't an exclusively elven thing, so even though there are famous elven examples (*cough*Fëanor*cough*) it occurs among humans too. Technically it entails convincing people not just with arguments, but with some form of magic woven in them. (You could see Saruman's voice as an example of this, even though he was a Maia it sort of comes down to the same.) Thomas may have possessed this talent in some latent form before his accident, but the sudden emergence of it is definitely related to his Quenya speech.**

_**- Maglor's bad response to Thomas' sudden speech talent.**_

**Thomas' skill with words is not on the same level as the great speakers of both elves and men… but he managed to hit Maglor really hard because the elf didn't expect such a sudden, deeply personal assault. **

**In this story, I let Maglor have a very bad experience after the First Kinslaying; he basically had a psychotic breakdown and doesn't remember much of what came after defeating the Teleri and stealing the boats until they land in Losgar. I do this not because I like to see him suffer (okay, maybe a bit) but because it serves as an explanation why he didn't stand with Maedhros when the boats were burned. I've always thought that him not supporting his brother in this didn't completely fit with his character further in the story, so I made this up. None of them were in their right mind at the time, but Maglor certainly wasn't, and he really, really wanted those boats gone. **

**It's one of the many things from his past that our dear minstrel hasn't come to terms with, and he is giving Thomas ****the silent treatment because he made him remember, and he doesn't know how to deal with it. **

_**- Thelma Dubois-Saroyan**_

**Amandine is right: her daughter-in-law is indeed a distant relative of Maglor. A descendant of Arwen and Aragorn, to be precise. Genes are funny things, they can resurface even after being diluted who-knows-how-many times… with that in mind, I turned her into a human, female Fingolfin. Because, why not? xD**

**There is an important difference between the resemblance of Thelma to Fingolfin and that of Thomas to Fëanor. Thelma physically looks like her ancestor, but not in mind or fëa. Thomas resembles Fëanor in mind and fëa, and that resemblance makes them look alike despite having different physical features. (Just thought to clarify this.)**

**Also, Amandine never married, that's why Christophe has her maiden name.**

_**- The creepy spirit**_

**Picture the scary dead elves in the Dead Marshes, but with ice instead of water. That's the look I'm going for. **

**In case you didn't guess, the spirit is that of Elenwë of the Vanyar, wife of Turgon, who died on the Helcaraxë. The Vanyar are the most spiritual of the elven races, and in my head canon they know almost as much about magic, foresight, and the properties of the fëa as the Noldor know about material crafts. I can imagine that Fëanor would have had little patience to learn about such things, as they weren't of practical use to him and he wasn't exactly a fan of the Vanyar. (Because Indis… -_-) Elenwë's Vanyarin education is what saved her spirit from complete insanity though… (I say complete, because not even the Vanyar come undamaged out of something like this xD)**

**What a list, right? This chapter was not easy to write, and I don't know if I did well with it… Are you looking forward to more? Did I go overboard with anything? Are my characters still in character? (especially that, it's my greatest fear…) Any idea what Elenwë is doing to Thomas? I really, really love comments and feedback! If it's polite, it's appreciated!**

**Speaking of which… Thank you to everyone who reviewed; here are some answers to my anonymous reviewers ;)**

_**DrangySmallFoot: **__**Thanks for the review! You asked a very good question there. Thomas is confused himself about the Quenya term "human", because he knows it's not the right word for what he's trying to say. His problem is that**** he basically got the Quenya language pasted onto an English-influenced worldview. In English, "human" can mean something like "not-animal", and you could see that as an expression, like "it's raining cats and dogs". You can't literally translate something like that. What he did was using an expression he knew (part of his "worldview"), and then suddenly realizing it didn't make sense. If you're interested in this kind of thing, you should look up "The Linguistic Turn". **_

_**Elrond's Circlet: Glad that you interrupted your "Fanfic Fast" for my story! :) I think Celegorm always had some form of mental instability, that became progressively worse under the Oath, so you could indeed say that it was the Oath that made him cruel and honourless. I looked into pronunciation of Quenya, and I've found sources that say the accent in English is much like either Welsh or Persian/Arabic accent, and I've even come across someone who said it would sound like they are from Calcutta. Vowels are lengthened, all r's are rolled, and apparently they also don't "swallow" sounds. I won't be writing phonetically (it would take even longer to get these chapters done) but if you're interested in how it sounds you can find examples on youtube. **_


	6. Cold War Casualties

_(She had lost all sense of direction, all sense of time. Her eyes were on the ground, for she was afraid that if she were to look up, she would fall into the starry blackness above and be devoured by it.)_

_They called it the Grinding Ice for a reason; you could actually hear it, creaking and groaning under your feet like rusty clockwork. It got to you after a while. At first she hadn't even been aware of the sound; the anger had burned too brightly in her heart to focus on anything other than the end of their doomed journey. It had come later, when the darkness, the monotonous landscape, and the biting, unrelenting cold had taken the sharp edge off her determination. Once you started listening, it was like thousands of voices plaintively whining, trapped in a prison of ice and water; nails and claws, desperately scratching frozen walls for freedom. It was always there, and slowly, it wormed its way into her mind, chafing away at her sanity._

_(In the coldest nights, it sounded deceptively much like the crackle of burning wood. It was a device of subtle cruelty, haunting her dreams with bitterness and longing alike. Their meagre cooking fires ran on animal remains and fat; they didn't crackle so much as they hissed and stunk. There was only the memory of real flames… and bit-by-bit, even that was starting to fade.)_

_… . … . …_

_"Mísilindë, get up! Please, get up!"_

_A woman lay down on the ice, knees against her chest like a small child. A younger woman was desperately trying to pull her up, her voice shrill in the wind. It was no use. No amount of pleading could bring someone back once they were like this; the woman would be dead in a couple hours._

_She had seen it before; weakened by the cold and the lack of food, many couldn't shoulder the grief of loved ones dying. They slowly dissociated from reality, wasting away until death set in. People called it the Cold Sleep, for the look in their eyes was not unlike the gaze of one dreaming. Empty-eyed and unresponsive they walked among them, until the host stopped to set up camp. Then they sat down, curled into themselves, and never got up again. Once the Cold Sleep grabbed someone, there was no saving them. If they had had light, and warmth, then perhaps... But in this darkness, it was hopeless._

_"Please…"_

_The woman's voice slowly died away, until only sobbing could be heard. Elenwë turned her head from it. One day, all of them would have mourned a death such as this. Now, she did not even have a word of comfort to spare._

_The cold made them callous. How much more would it take to make them cruel?_

_(The waters of the sea don't mourn the drowned, the soil doesn't cry for the buried. The air does not mind who breathes it, nor does the fire care whom it burns.)_

_… . … . …_

_She only kept walking for fear that if she stopped but a moment too long, her feet would freeze stuck to the ground. The wind howled in chorus with the grinding and creaking of the ice, blowing in such fury that every step felt like trying to break through a wall. Every fibre of her body screamed in protest to the torment, but she couldn't stop. In a blizzard like this, stopping meant a sure death. As long as they kept moving, kept sight of the lanterns, there was a chance of survival._

_"Ammë… I'm s-so cold…"_

_Itarillë's tiny mental voice was so hesitant, so weak… hearing it, she felt as if the icy wind also blew through her heart._

_"Stay awake, little one. It's almost over."_

_It had to be. They had been walking through the storm for what seemed like days. Itarillë had walked with them at first, but the winds had soon grown too strong for her to withstand, and now she and Turukano took turns carrying the little one on their backs. Elenwë kept a mental link open at all times, to make sure her daughter was still conscious. Falling asleep was almost as deadly as stopping to walk, especially for the young ones._

_"Almost over?"_

_The hope in her daughter's voice was heart-wrenching._

_"Yes, dear heart. It's almost over."_

_… . … . …_

_"Elenwë, daughter of my heart… Tell me." Nolofinwë stared out over the camp. "How great are the losses?"_

_His tone told her he already knew the answer._

_"About 140 are not accounted for since the latest storm." She hesitated. "It is less than last time."_

_"Less than last time... I suppose I should rejoice at that."_

_His voice was tinted with bitter resignation._

_"My lord…"_

_He shook his head._

_"No, don't say anything."_

_So she remained silent. Eventually Nolofinwë spoke again, so softly she almost didn't hear him, words meant for the wind rather than her ears._

_"Our honour always weighs heavier than our conscience, doesn't it?"_

_When honour and conscience did not lie in the same scale, it was pride you were weighing, not honour. But she would not say this. Not here. Not now. She had no right. _

_(She had sworn in secret, in the shadow of her breath, to stand with him, and to go where he went.)_

_… . … . …_

_The child pitifully whined, lacking the strength and lung capacity for more. It had been born too early, and was too small and malnourished to survive. Very soon, it would follow its mother to the Halls of Mandos. Its soft cries were already becoming weaker, the cold turning its shivering lips purple. It would die in the dark, unnamed and unloved._

_Holding the tiny being in her blood-coated hands, Elenwë felt something inside her shatter. She had tried all she could to save the child's mother, but the woman's blood loss had killed her before any medicine could take effect. And now the child… No matter how much she tried to tell herself that it was better this way, better for it to die now rather than in a couple of days of cold and starvation, it didn't help. It didn't dam in the despair that threatened to flood her heart._

_She cradled the child to her chest, attempting to sing a lullaby to make the little one's last moments less miserable… but her voice refused service, and when she felt the child had given its last breath, she fell to her knees and cried._

_(They heaped together when they slept, sharing what warmth they had as their bodies formed a cocoon for Itarillë.. They were the walls of the world for her. She wished they could always hold her like that, safe and hidden from the outside's hardships…)_

_… . … . …_

_The panic was white-hot. She could see him, above her. Garbled screams through frozen prison walls, and cold, so cold… Her fingers scratched the ice until she couldn't feel them anymore. The darkness was strangling her, icy hands around her throat. She couldn't breathe… _

_A sword broke through the ice right next to her, shattering her prison. Hands gripped her and pulled her up, wrapping her in a desperate embrace._

_"Elenwë! Elenwë, look at me!"_

_She couldn't feel him. He was right there, and yet he seemed so far away; she couldn't feel his arms around her, nor his hands caressing her face. All was cold._

_"Stay with me, Elenwë! Please! You promised me!"_

_The anguish in his voice reached her where his touch would not. She had to stay…_

_"Please… Elenwë…"_

_Frozen chains wound around her heart, tugged on her, dragged her away into cold darkness. She struggled, refused to follow the pull even when pain shot through her chest and the open air offered her as little breath as the frigid water had..._

_"Please…"_

_A vague whisper was all she heard. Then, there was nothing. _

_(Twice she defied his call. She too had made a promise.)_

… . … . …

Thomas gasped for breath, his entire body shivering violently. He didn't know where he was; thick, icy mist clouded his mind, and he couldn't move or make a sound.

"Such warmth… I had almost forgotten…"

He saw her only when she spoke, her chilling voice pervading the fog in his head. She still looked gaunt, but her skin had lost its deathlike pallor, and her eyes were no longer glazed and unseeing. Instead they sat in her emaciated face like glittering blue gems, surrounded by a halo of golden-blonde tresses. Her appearance was one of faded glory rather than corpse-like repugnance now… but somehow it made her all the more terrifying.

"E-Elenw-wë…"

As he forced her name over his lips she smiled, with what he dared say was a hungry glint in her eyes. Her thin fingers caressed his cheek, sending a new wave of cold through his body.

"Goodbye, Fëanaro. And thank you…"

Thomas was still struggling to speak when a sudden icy breeze dissolved her form, leaving him alone with his panic. The inability to move or speak disappeared quickly after that, but the cold stayed where it was, firmly rooted in his being, paralyzing his thoughts.

"Thomas? Thomas, wake up!"

He heard voices as through a wall of ice and water, faraway and distorted. The cold made his mind sluggish, and he couldn't make sense of the warped words he caught. There were familiar faces, but their identity was somehow out of his mind's reach, and the names in his head refused to match up with the people before him...

"Please say something! Thomas!"

The sharply chiselled face bending over him struck a familiar chord, and at long last things came through. Or at least, he thought they did.

"Istanyë celdelelyá… Nolofinwë?"

Even in his befuddled state of mind, the look of bewildered incomprehension he received gave him a dreadful déjà-vu...

* * *

Maglor had just started to relax a little bit, sitting with his back against a tree while Amandine had gone to get drinks for them, when the bomb fell. The bomb in this case being a deathly pale Thelma, and she didn't fall so much as that she hesitatingly approached him, visibly shaken by something.

"A-Are you Mr M-Maka Smith?"

One look at her shock-stricken expression was enough to make any semblance of calm vanish immediately. He should have seen it coming…

_Apparently, they don't even need swords to make trouble._

The Noldo barely managed to keep the trepidation out of his voice when he answered,

"Yes? Is something wrong?"

Straightaway, the girl looked as if she were about to cry.

"It's Thomas, we were just fooling around with the Ouija board and I didn't think it would do anything and then suddenly there was a real ghost and it…"

Maglor stopped her mid-sentence, not entirely believing what he just heard.

"Thomas tried to contact a ghost? With an Ouija board?"

Thelma nodded, fearfully.

"But it's my fault, I pushed him to do it, I didn't think it would do anything, I didn't believe in ghosts, but then…"

Maglor had gotten up and grabbed the girl by the arms.

"Calm down. Tell me what happened, one thing at the time. So you called a ghost through the Ouija board. What happened then?"

Thelma swallowed.

"Nothing at first, but then suddenly the planchette started moving, by itself. The candles went out and it… it was… it became so cold... Thomas started talking in this strange language, and suddenly I…" Her eyes widened in fear at the memory and a shiver racked her body. "S-suddenly I felt it. I felt it on my skin, it touched me. It was so cold… I wanted to scream but I couldn't, it was like… like my tongue was stuck, and I couldn't get away, I couldn't move…" She was really crying now. "And then the planchette started moving again, and it spelled out something again, and it spelled my name, and…"

"Do you remember what it said?"

The girl just sobbed, and he tightened his grip.

"Thelma, this is important. What did it say?"

She looked at him with frightened, teary eyes.

"I… I d-don't know, something like nameary, and then my name, and Indwyo ninwya? I d-don't know, it made no sense…"

She mispronounced terribly, but Maglor could easily tell what she meant, and it did nothing to soothe his now rampant worry.

_Namarië Thelma, indyo-ninya… Goodbye Thelma, descendant of mine._

"What happened to Thomas?"

"He just stared, and it was like he didn't even see us, and he was so pale, he… he didn't even recognize us! Please just come, Caroline said you could help and I don't…"

Maglor didn't need to hear more.

"Bring me to him. Now."

… … … …

Whatever this ghost had done to Thomas, Maglor could tell it was bad. By the time he arrived in the library the boy had already recovered a bit from the near-catatonia Thelma had described; he at least recognized them and was able to speak English again. However, he still seemed only half-aware of what was happening, and after they said their goodbyes, Maglor had to take him by the hand to lead him away from the party. The elf didn't know what worried him more about that; the lethargic state the boy was in to allow this, or the ice-cold touch of his skin. It could be just shock, but knowing ghosts had been involved, it could very well be something far worse…

As he drove them to his house, Maglor went over what might have happened. The use of Quenya, the unnatural cold, and the fact that Thelma was apparently its descendant were clear signs that the spirit had been an elf from Fingolfin's branch of the family… but who?

_It probably doesn't even matter who it was; even Fingon hated my father, and he was by far the most forgiving of the bunch. If any of them perceived Thomas as Fëanor…_

The elf glanced at the motionless boy in the passenger seat next to him, and unconsciously sped up the car, clenching his hands around the steering wheel. If even a fraction of what he knew about malicious spirits held true, Thomas needed help as soon as possible...

* * *

Looking around, Thomas had the distinct feeling that it all wasn't real. It was cold, and the whole world had gained something dreamlike, a certain illusory quality that reminded him of a theatre décor. Some things were flat, grey, oddly undefined… while other things were bright and loud, full of sharp edges. There were faces, and he knew their names, but they too seemed unreal, actors behind masks and costumes. His lips moved on their own accord, forming expected words, pronouncing scripted lines… and he couldn't interfere. He was disconnected from his own body.

Everything felt distant and immaterial. There was a nagging sensation in the back of his mind, like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue… but when he tried to name it, it faded into the cold.

He lost time. Or maybe a second for him was far longer for others. He didn't know. It was cold and he couldn't think.

_Maybe I am dead._

Sounds and colours blurred into each other.

_I think I understand them better now._

* * *

Maglor paced the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil so he could make Thomas some hot tea. The boy had repeatedly tried to reassure him that he was fine, but the vague, absent tinge to his voice and the unfocused haze over his eyes told the Noldo a whole other story. The cold that clung to Thomas wasn't purely physical, and even though he tried to tell himself otherwise Maglor knew that tea and blankets wouldn't be enough to chase it away. He could only hope that what other means he had at his disposal would suffice.

_I know they will. Valar know I've had to use them often enough._

His mind was full of faces. There was Maedhros, caught in the throws of fever. Elrond and Elros, so brave despite their fear. Daeron, entangled in the memories of his failing mind. Amrod, always only half of what he once was. Curufin, crying for what he had left in Nargothrond. He remembered all of them, and many more. Their faces, some defiant, some pleading, haunted his dreams almost as much as the faces of those he had… No. Maglor broke from his thoughts and resolutely pushed them away before they could escalate. He couldn't afford to dwell on that now.

When after what seemed like an age of pacing in front of his cupboards the water finally boiled, Maglor forced himself to focus on preparing Thomas' tea. As an afterthought he also made a cup for himself; he would probably need it.

Thomas still sat on the sofa where he had deposited him, covered with a blanket and looking definitely off. He absently accepted the cup of tea, mumbling thanks but not proceeding to drink. Instead he curled his fingers around the porcelain as if to contain the heat, seemingly uncaring of how the cup would burn his hands when held like that. Maglor observed it with great concern.

_Perhaps he doesn't feel it…_

"You will burn yourself like this."

The boy confusedly looked up at him.

"She… she said f-frozen kindling doesn't burn."

Maglor shook his head.

"Trust me, your hands will. Now drink your tea."

He silently winced when Thomas obediently brought the steaming cup to his lips and emptied it without flinching.

_I knew it. He doesn't feel it. He can probably hold a candle to his hand now and not feel it._

Apparently the ghost had disabled Thomas' perception of heat and pain, but to what purpose Maglor could only guess. Maybe it was some sort of twisted retribution for the burning of the boats? To be ever cold… he could easily imagine a victim of the Grinding Ice wishing that on his father. As far as revenge went it was almost poetic...

_But Thomas isn't Fëanor. He had nothing to do with it. He should never have been involved in this!_

Once again the deeds of his father had hurt and perhaps permanently damaged an innocent... and why? For a moment Maglor was overcome with bitter resentment. Why was it that whenever his family needed something, they came by it at the expense of others? Mission from the Valar or not, it… It just wasn't fair.

_But when is anything ever, for us? Doomed and dispossessed we are, and apparently no amount of penance can lift that curse…_

… … … …

When he had his emotions back under control, Maglor sat down next to Thomas and wrapped the blanket a little tighter around the boy's cold form. The medicinal herbs in the tea had left him relaxed and sleepy, and he didn't protest when the Noldo pulled him closer.

"Thomas?"

"Mmhm?"

He blinked tiredly, and Maglor could tell he was hardly conscious anymore.

_Well, all the better._

"Close your eyes."

It had been a long time since he had last done this… Ages, in fact. But some things were never unlearned; the songs of healing were still clear as crystal in his mind, and their melody fell from his lips with no less power or ease than it had in the First Age…

* * *

The cold had draped itself over his thoughts, languidly stretching over what lucidity he had still had left. Thomas didn't mind it much. He was too tired to think; his whole body felt numb and oddly weightless, and as he drifted on the edge of sleep it was almost comfortable. In a flicker of relative coherence he did wonder where his hands had gone –as he couldn't feel them- but that thought too quickly dissolved again. His awareness was so diminished he almost didn't hear the singing… yet the voice, soft and gentle as it was, would not be denied. It persistently refused to blend into the fuzzy muddle of his brain, and even on the brink of losing consciousness Thomas found it impossible to ignore. Once he started listening the song's power overwhelmed him; it was everywhere at once, too immense to grasp for his dulled senses, and before he could even begin to understand it he was helplessly entranced.

Something warm and bright swept through his being, driving out the cloying cold and enfolding him in what felt like a soft, plush cocoon. It was like sunlight on his skin, and Thomas basked in the warmth, having almost forgotten that something so wonderful existed. He felt safe and cared for, cradled by the soothing cadence of the song… and when eventually the beautiful melody coaxed him to sleep, he gratefully surrendered to it, slipping away in deep, velvety oblivion.

* * *

Maglor hadn't had to sing long before Thomas had gone limp in his arms, the strain of the events taking its toll on the boy. As soon as he had succumbed to a profound healing sleep, the elf had carried him to his own bed and tucked him in. Now there wasn't much he could do except for sitting around and waiting, and occasionally checking the boy's pulse and temperature.

_What a mess._

He massaged his temples, trying to ease an upcoming headache. It was a small windfall that Thomas staying over for the weekend had already been arranged with the people from the clinic; explaining why their patient was currently both comatose and suffering from hypothermia was not something he had been looking forward to. The elf had the slight feeling that Thomas' present state made the boy even more of a medical oddity than he already was…

Humans generally didn't go into a healing sleep, unless as a last resort after receiving severe bodily trauma; the sleep that healed the soul was completely unknown to them. It was one of the things that had over the years convinced Maglor that the perseverance of the human race surpassed that of the elves… Humans didn't fade when they were marred. On the contrary even, to be marred seemed ingrained in their being, as much a part of it as their limbs or their gender, and they didn't possess any innate ways of healing it. Even after all this time, it still perplexed him. Men were weak in body, with brief, flighty lifespans and a youth shorter than the life of a cut flower in Aman… yet at the same time they were hardier than most elves in matters of the soul.

In his long life Maglor had seen more horrors than he cared to remember, cruelty that would have given the average servant of Morgoth a run for his money… and he had seen at least as many people bear it. From that, he had come to understand that the necessary union of hröa and fëa was much stronger in humans than in elves, or at least very different. Their soul could be in shreds, but as long as their body lived, they stayed alive. In the same manner, their soul couldn't remain bound to a gravely damaged body. It was a mixed blessing, if it was one at all… but either way it deserved his respect. He knew well enough what it was like to live with a damaged fëa.

As he watched Thomas, something tightened in Maglor's throat. The boy looked awfully young and fragile against the white sheets, nearly unrecognizable without his customary glare and ever-fiddling fingers. Even in sleep he seemed exhausted, with sunken cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, only made worse by the paleness of his skin… So vulnerable, as if the least blow could shatter him. How had he missed that? Maglor shook his head. How had he so easily forgotten that Thomas was only an eighteen-year-old, mortal boy?

_He makes it easy to forget._

The knowledge that Thomas was very young had always sat in the back of his mind, but it had been immaterial, negligible most of the time. The boy had always appeared older than he was, taller and stronger, somehow more deliberate in his words and actions than one his age should be. His actual age had been easy to forget. Confronted with the physical evidence however, there was no denying it. Maglor carefully studied Thomas' motionless form. His body was still somewhat in that awkward teenage phase, when everything was growing and changing disproportionately and you mostly looked as if you were going to trip over your own feet… yet he already had the makings of a handsome man. In a couple of years he would be fully-grown, and Maglor dared say, quite attractive.

_In a couple of years… if nothing happens to him in the meantime._

And this debacle certainly proved that that wasn't even remotely self-evident.

The elf remembered the unpleasant conversation that had led to them going to Caroline's party, and suddenly felt he had been cruel. Thomas had been right; he had indeed wanted to control him. Not consciously, but that made little difference; he hadn't in the least considered the boy's wellbeing. Maglor felt something very much akin to shame burn in his chest. He had never done the effort to get to know Thomas better. The boy had of course rebuffed all his half-hearted attempts at more personal conversation, but that wasn't an excuse, at any rate he could have given it an honest try. And then Caroline… He should have been happy that Thomas got to experience at least a fraction of the things normal for his age-group, but that hadn't even crossed his mind; all he had thought about was what it would mean for himself.

_I'm still my father's son, it seems…_

The realization left a sour taste in his mouth.

Even so, he did wonder how much of what happened to Thomas was really random, and how much of it was orchestrated by the Valar. He felt there had been a little too much "coincidence" lately for it to be entirely coincidental…

* * *

Waking up felt strange, like slowly drifting back to the surface after being under water for a long time. It took a while before he was aware enough to question where he was and what had happened… and he felt a mysterious lack of panic at not knowing the answer to those questions. It was an odd sensation.

_I should probably be terrified… but… well, it's not as if I woke up in an ice bath without my kidneys. And this bed is really comfortable._

The room he was in was sparsely but tastefully furnished, with large latticed windows to provide it with plenty of natural light. The elegant curves of the furniture were repeated in a decorative pattern on the soft yellow walls, and Thomas fascinatedly watched how the design seemed to change with the interplay of light and shadow. Everything in the room was permeated by a sense of quiet beauty, and even though he was sure he had never been there before, it still felt… familiar. And quite cosy, really.

_Now if only I remembered where I am and how I got here, that would be wonderful._

He didn't have to wait long for his wish to be fulfilled… Looking around, Thomas located his clothes, neatly folded on a chair next to the bed, and as soon as he saw those, things started to come back. The pleasant calm fell from his thoughts like a veil, and a profound shiver ran down his spine when flashes of –what he hoped was- the night before assaulted his mind. It wasn't long before he remembered everything, making him curse wholeheartedly.

"Fucking hell!"

Breathing heavily, Thomas blinked to dispel the images from his retina. The room felt colder than it had before, and he had to force himself not to curl under the blanket again. Elenwë's memory of the Helcaraxë was really something he could have done without… Rubbing the goose bumps from his arms, he decided that if he ever came across Fëanaro Curufinwë, he would give him all this and then some.

_A troubled individual, my ass. I know "troubled". I'm troubled. Maglor's dad is in a whole other category of fucked-up-ness._

He was just debating whether he should find Maglor or look for a bathroom first, when the elf entered the room.

"Ah, you're awake. I thought you might be."

Almost automatically, Thomas raised an eyebrow at him and dryly asked,

"What gave me away?"

Equally dryly, Maglor remarked,

"The swearing may have had something to do with that."

"Oh. Right."

"Yes. The walls are thin. Old house and all."

As they uneasily eyed each other, Thomas was very conscious of the fact that he was lying quasi-naked in the Noldo's bed, and that Maglor had probably had to undress him. He usually wasn't uncomfortable with his body, but thinking about that was just… awkward.

"I…err… I guess we have to talk?"

Maglor nervously scraped his throat.

"Yes. I… I'll wait downstairs. The bathroom is first door to your left. Take your time."

When the elf left Thomas cursed again, under his breath this time. He didn't know how their talk would go, but if this was an indication, "awkward" wouldn't exactly cover it…

… … … …

Finding his overnight bag –that he had completely forgotten about- in the bathroom did a great deal to improve Thomas' mood, and after a shower and a shave he felt loads better. That didn't make him any more comfortable about the conversation that awaited him though, on the contrary even. He somewhat felt like an intruder, and when he entered the kitchen and found that Maglor had prepared him scrambled eggs and bacon, he was positively mortified.

_He made me breakfast? I insulted him, caused him trouble, and then passed out on his couch… and he makes me breakfast? I'm a horrible person._

Maglor was leaning against the kitchen counter, managing to look poised and extremely tense at the same time.

"I made you something to eat. It's rather late in the day for breakfast, but… I guessed you might be hungry."

Thomas opened his mouth to thank him, but his stomach beat him to it with a loud and hungry rumble. He inwardly face-palmed.

_Oh thank you intestines. That was great. This situation really called for a show of whale mating calls. Thank you so much. What a conversation starter._

Nevertheless Maglor didn't comment on it and just handed him his plate, and after that the only sound in the kitchen was Thomas eating. While he was trying his best not to eat too fast, chew too loud, or pay too much attention to the elf's observant stare, he wondered what he should say once he was out of food to muffle himself with. How did you even begin a conversation like this? Thomas let his mind run over several options, but everything he managed to come up with were variations to the "Yeah, you told me so and I didn't listen, I'm sorry for being a dumbass"-theme.

Eventually he found himself scraping his fork a little aimlessly over the plate, hoping in vain that there would be one more bite delay of execution. The tension in the kitchen was cutting, and Maglor's unnerving way of looking at him without blinking enough wasn't helping the least… The elf was the first to take the word, hesitantly.

"Thomas, I…"

He interrupted him before he could finish his sentence, blurting out,

"Look, I'm sorry okay? I… I'm sorry. You were right, I was wrong, I should have listened to you, my bad. I'm sorry I caused you trouble."

Maglor looked at him with raised eyebrows, visibly surprised.

"You… are sorry?"

Thomas wanted to slam his face in his plate. Of course that wasn't the way to put it.

"I mean… I insulted you, and you still took me to that party even though you could barely stand to look me in the face. And then I thanked you by getting in a fight with a rancorous ghost, causing a scene, and passing out on your couch. I'm sorry."

The elf now looked as if he had gotten a slap in the face. Thomas bit his lip. He hadn't accidentally delivered another insult, had he?

_That would be so like me._

* * *

When Thomas entered the kitchen, he wasn't the vulnerable child that Maglor had carefully tucked in his bed that night, nor the confused teen he had found there earlier that day. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, but something about the boy had changed… and it unsettled him. There was a certain austerity in Thomas' countenance that struck a painfully familiar chord.

_Hollowed and hardened…_

He had never been able to look his cousins in the eye again without flinching inside. They had carried the ice in their gaze, harsh and cold yet burning… and even when a tentative understanding had been reached, and they had no longer spoken of what had happened in Losgar, their eyes had never failed to remind him. Maglor suppressed a shiver. He had thought it impossible for a mortal to have this look, to have such intensity in his eyes without the light of Valinor…

Thomas' sudden apologies startled him, and when the boy elaborated, he cringed inwardly. Hesitatingly he uttered,

"I… You… You never insulted me."

That earned him a frown.

"Then why were you angry with me? And don't say you weren't angry, because you totally were."

Maglor swallowed thickly. How was he supposed to say this? How could he properly explain that he hadn't been angry with Thomas so much as with himself?

"You… you remind me of things, sometimes."

He watched as the boy's face dropped.

"I make you think of your father, isn't it?"

Maglor weakly nodded.

"Sometimes."

Thomas stared at his plate.

"And that was why you were mad at me? Because you're actually pissed at your dad and I remind you of him?"

"No."

"Then what was it?"

The harshness in the boy's voice startled him.

"It's difficult to explain."

Thomas sent him a dark look.

"Try me."

Maglor sighed.

"I was mad at myself more than anything else, really. The memories you bring back generally aren't my proudest moments. I…" He hesitated for a moment. "It is I who should be apologizing to you. I treated you very unfairly."

To his surprise, Thomas only shrugged.

"You let me sleep in your bed and made me breakfast after I caused you a heap of trouble and ignored all your warnings, I wouldn't call that unfair treatment. You were right to oppose my _thing_ with Caroline; I'm obviously not in the position to be involved with anyone at the moment."

It was unexpectedly rational, but Maglor could clearly hear the cynicism in his voice. He shook his head.

"No. No matter what happened this time, you have every right to a life outside of our mission and I was wrong to oppose that. You are an adult by the standards of your kind. If you want to be with Caroline, it is not my place to say you can't."

Thomas smirked bitterly.

"I doubt Caroline will want anything to do with me anymore. After that show I gave her yesterday, I'll be lucky if she doesn't file a restraining order."

Maglor shook his head.

"Isn't that a little exaggerated?"

The boy shrugged again.

"Maybe. I'm pretty sure she's not going to call back though." He snapped his shoulders and continued with an air of false levity, "Ah well. Did you notice her cousin looks a lot like your uncle?"

"It was… hard to miss." Suddenly realizing the oddness of the remark, Maglor frowned. "How do you know what my uncle looks like? Was the ghost by any chance…?"

Thomas' lopsided smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Long story. And no, the ghost wasn't your uncle. I don't think I would have survived that, to be honest. It was your cousin-by-marriage, Elenwë. Apparently, Thelma is her last descendant."

"Elenwë?"

Maglor couldn't picture it. Even though it made sense, for she had died on the Ice and was indeed of the house of Fingolfin, it was difficult to imagine Turgon's beautiful Vanyarin wife as anything less than perfectly virtuous. Elenwë had always been kind yet strong-willed, even-tempered but resolute, a perfect match for his rather unsociable cousin. She had been one of the only people able to make him laugh…

_And after he lost her, he never laughed again. _

But if spirits truly turned evil after a while...

"What did she do to you?"

Thomas' veneer of flippancy chipped off before Maglor's very eyes at that question, revealing for a moment the boy's inner turmoil. It was gone almost as swiftly as it came, but the elf knew he hadn't imagined it. The boy's answer was too studied, too calculated to properly fit with the rest of the conversation, betraying how uncomfortable he was.

"I don't really know, I don't remember much. It was very cold, and when she touched me I saw flashes of what I think were memories. It's all rather hazy, I don't remember any details. I think I only remembered your uncle's face because he looked so much like Thelma."

Maglor sensed there was much more to it, but he held his tongue. He couldn't fault the boy for keeping secrets and talking around things when he did a pretty good job at that himself… In time, they would talk things over. In time. For now, this would have to do. They would make do.

**(Author's Apologies)**

**I'm so sorry this is so late! I hope no one thought I had given up on this story, because I really hadn't! I have been laboring over this chapter for almost three weeks, and sometimes I managed to write like… only one paragraph in an hour. It went SO slow! But now I finally managed to complete it, and it's extra long too, so… forgive me? _Also, big thanks to TheSillyKitten, my parter in brainstorming and torment of fictional characters, without whom this chapter probably still wouldn't be finished. _**

**There are ****several very important things in this chapter. As usual, I'll start at the beginning. **

**YES, THE MEMORY SEQUENCE IS LONG. This is on purpose. Usually, the memory-sharing is an accidental thing, now it was done on purpose, initiated by Elenwë. I hope I managed to convey what kind of person she was before her death, and also place her creepiness into perspective. **

"Istanyë celdelelyá… Nolofinwë?" **basically means "I know your face… Nolofinwë?" I thought that would be clear form the context, but mentioning it is never bad.**

**Thomas is experiencing derealization, an existing state of altered perception that causes you -among other things- to feel your surroundings are unreal. As a condition on its own it is categorized under dissociative disorders, and often caused by very traumatic experiences. It can also be a symptom of other illnesses, like schizophrenia and epilepsy, or an effect of brain damage.**

**Maglor's observations about the necessary union of hroä and fëa are IMPORTANT. Seriously. Basically it comes down to humans being more "physical" than elves. **

**Both elves and humans are incarnate, but in elves the body is subordinate to the soul. They can of course be slain, that's what the whole union-of-body-and-soul thing is about, but in general elves can survive much worse injuries than humans, withstand much worse physical conditions, and endure much longer in bad circumstances. As long as their will isn't broken and their bodies aren't completely beyond healing, they'll hang on. On the other hand, when their soul is gravely wounded, they are likely to just… die, even when their physical body is completely undamaged. In humans, the soul is subordinate to the body; they can't sustain as much physical damage, but no matter how much mental pain someone is in, they won't die from it (unless they help fate a hand by suicide, of course.)**

_(The above section is a thank-you for TheSillyKitten, he knows why.)_

**And then there is the awkward. So much awkward. I like to think elves don't have to blink as often as humans, which would give them the most unsettling stare ever. (Maglor probably compensates, but not when his mind is elsewhere) And Thomas is just being his regular old self, plus extra Helcaraxë experience. (He remembers everything clearly, he just doesn't want to talk about it)**

**Please tell me what you thought about it! Opinions, ideas, theories, questions, everything is welcome! I love feedback ;) Since I had so much work on this chapter, I'd like to know if I managed to keep it readable...**

**Now for some review answers:**

**Elrond's Circlet: ****_Thank you for your review! I love your reviews, so of course I answer them! You always have interesting questions and good feedback for me, it's highly appreciated ;) You're kind of right about the family-connections, although Caroline happened sort of accidentally while writing. Then I realized she indeed reminded me of Nerdanel, and I added fem!Fingolfin-Thelma just because. Thelma's instinctive dislike of Thomas is caused by Elenwë, who gave her bad chills every time she looked at him. As for Elenwë seeing Thomas as Fëanor despite being quite world-aware… there is a reason why I put emphasis on her eyes being milky-white and unseeing. She is actually "blind" to the physical world, only sees the spirit world. There are gradations in how detached ghosts are, and most of them are in a strange in-between phase of spirit-world and material world. Elenwë consciously chose to wander in the spirit world though. Thomas being recognized as Fëanor has something to do with him having his fëa tampered with. You could say that his soul was especially molded to fool ghosts into thinking he is Fëanor. (More on that in later chapters…)_**

**DrangeSmallfoot: _I answered your question in the review answer above, but to repeat: Elenwë sees only the spirit world. I could perhaps have been more clear about that, but that's why I portrayed her as having white, blind eyes. She is actually kind of blind, to the material world. Also, Thomas had his fëa tampered with by the Valar so that he appears as Fëanor to ghosts. That other ghosts seem to have some awareness of him not being entirely Fëanor has to do with them still being able to perceive the material world to some degree. (Elenwë isn't totally unaware of the Thomas/Fëanor problem though, but this will become clear in late chapters)_  
**

**And then to end this with: some people noted my cover image. I actually made that myself, and I'm really happy people noticed it! I always make cover images for my multi-chap fics, it's great to hear that it does help to draw people's attention to them. :)**

**EDIT: In a review was pointed out to me that Thomas had aged considerably since the start of the story, starting out as seventeen and being mentioned as nineteen in this chapter. I have corrected this, making Maglor mention him as eighteen. Before the accident Thomas was seventeen, but he missed his own birthday during the coma he was in. His birthday is in October, and the currently it's Spring (April/May) in the storyline, so he isn't nineteen yet, but will be this year. Maglor may have thought of him as nineteen already (my mom does that with me, I'm always two years older every birthday except when I want age-related privileges) but for the sake of simplicity, I have changed the age here. **


End file.
